i miss you all the time.
halcyonplaces
I used to look at couples and wonder how much of their relationship they've thought through. I wonder if they look at each other and see forty years down the road, greying hair and endless possibilities. I wonder if they discuss their favourite names and come to a consensus with children in mind. I wonder if they see how love is a filter for everything real.
But I know they couldn't give a damn.
Life updates #4
#1: Times like this don't make me want to write lengthy poems about love or better days. All I want to do is pull out my hair and finish my work but I can't do either and that makes me feel relatively uncomfortable.
#2: Actually, a lot of things about myself have made me feel uncomfortable recently.
#2.1: I no longer write down my work/to-do lists and keep forgetting to do things I have to — time to get myself a planner with dates.
#2.2: I sleep too little every night and end up sleeping in almost all my classes the next day. I waste all my time trying to keep awake instead of absorb what is taught and spend all night trying to understand what I didn't catch at school — absolutely useless to me.
#2.3: I think I kind of lost myself along this stressful road and have done things that I could have avoided. Kind of puts unnecessary stress on myself (i could really do without all of this)
#3: Have not been able to practice and improve my practical performance, or read extensively, or write enough, or learn the guitar that I borrowed from Sean..basically all I do each day is sleep too little and struggle in school.. what is life..
#4: Can't wait for this week to be over so that I can get my life back together.
This
I wrote this before you, yet even in the biggest capacity I love you with, I will never understand how I did it.
How do you know that the giddiness wasn't from staying up late or spinning too much, that the butterflies in your tummy aren't from bad salmon, that they aren't just your best of friends, that this is it?
Losing
I am writing for days when I stop waking up to your voice (or your twelve missed calls), when my words become language you can't understand. I am writing for forgotten birthdays and hazy letters and all that is inbetween.
I am writing for the day when you are ripped from me by medical fluids and sirens, white lights and forces bigger than both of us. I am writing for when you are taken from me by hands and teeth and prettier eyes. I am writing for when our song runs out of minutes and seconds and all that's left is silence.
More than once
They say if a person believes they've loved more than once, they probably never loved at all.
They say that you could think you love a million after, but no feelings felt would be as strong as the first.
(I am a firm believer.)
What are the chances of people falling out of their first love? What are the chances of mishaps and accidents and not knowing how to love right? How unfair it is that we never love more than that and spend our entire lives with a substitution for the emptiness that cardboard cutouts could never fill.
Two parts to loving you
We love loudly — like claps of thunder before the rain, like hand-holding for the first time and kisses under the noon sun, like electricity dancing on the surface of my skin.
We love in bits and pieces — subtle in all our touches. You draw circles on my wrist, fingers dancing and looping like rewind. Uncertainty in every step, except for the steps that line the road to loving you — I would take them all.
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