Wonder if your blood is like your grandfather’s. Remember the way he was found. Remember the way he showed up to Father’s Day. Remember the vow to not drink until you turned 21. Remember you kept that vow.
I am well-versed in vacant conversations where people are too cowardly to admit that they could never love me. I don’t need to feel your cold disposition to know that it exists, and I can sense you are detached even when you are touching me.
People pull away, fade away, go away and we are left to pick up the pieces. This is the time in which we will find out the most about ourselves.
Kiss me under the persimmon tree and tell me this is how we stay. Tell me this is how we find ourselves again.
Now that you’re gone things will mean less as it did before. Now there will no longer be a me and you. Now that you’re gone things will never be the same.
Sometimes we do want to forgive someone, but pride itself doesn’t let you. It keeps telling you that you’ll be a fool by forgiving and that you’ll probably end up being hurt again.
He says I speak poetry. I read his body like words on a page—text coiled around the sinew of muscle quotations nestled in the space between his eyelashes. I found solace in the grammar of his collarbone.
This is why you didn’t “win the break up”. You have always been about a facade. You want to have moved on, so you’re dating someone else. *slow clap* that’s not hard.
Getting under someone else.
I’ve learned that when think we’ve found “the one,” we doubt it. We doubt them, we doubt ourselves, we unconsciously doubt all of the plans we have not yet made with the other person