Watching someone or something disintegrate before your eyes is like flowing in a current downstream with absolutely nothing to grab on to. You have no choice but to accept your lack of control and welcome fluidity as a new form of being.
My mind is blown that I still care about you. I’m blown away that after all you’ve caused, I still wish you well.
I would be a fool to push this away
I want to be chased with the intention of being kept.
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Feelings are meant to be felt. Not bottled up, not picked at, or swept away. Because one day, they are going to all come back to haunt you. And you might as well feel it all until they eventually fade from your heart.
“I call you my lover, you call me your friend.”
Love me for me. Every bit of brokenness. Every ounce of pain and every quiet unsure response. Take it and mold it in your hand with so much gentleness that every curve becomes secure in complete happiness.
“Trust me man, you’re going to be just fine,” the driver stated.
If it evokes strong emotions, we call it poetry. If it produces a supreme sense of beauty, we call it poetry. You can attempt to shrug off the label, but those are all poetry in some way.