I made of you more than you actually were.
I always exaggerated you in my poems, trying to make you fit into the world of art. I wanted to believe you’re art, but real art is pure and raw; isn’t it?
I clayed parts that never belonged to you for you to fit in my own fantasies. It took me quite a while to realize that I was probably in love with that illusion version of you, carefully stitched together in my own imagination aiming to shape my romanticized ideal of a man.
I made of you an ocean when you were just a puddle of water that occasionally dries out at certain seasons. I added this depth to you because then, I couldn’t understand that people could be so shallow.
You weren’t a breathing piece of art, but still, I tried connecting your scattered dots in a rhythmic way to make symphonies out of your empty promises. I made your carelessness sound like melodrama waiting to find it’s happy end.
It took me some time, but eventually I understood; your empty words were just empty words and your ugly lies were just ugly lies. And there was nothing more to that.
I made my sadness look purposeful, and that’s how I started writing poetry. That’s what poetry is all about.
It’s about the girl that fell asleep with her mascara running all through her face and the boy who kept on riding to his love’s house and never quiet finding it. It’s a virtual reality concealing the ugly truth.
Your silence was the indifference my ego refused to accept.
I could make a book about us now, only the pages would carry no words. There is nothing more to say. We never had a story. No matter how much I tried to make a painting out of our nothingness, nothing came out. The only thing in history that was created out of nothingness was the universe upon the big bang, but baby we are no universe and this is no big bang and I can’t keep on spilling my feelings into meaningless words.
My paint has gone dry and I ran out of colors, and we are still nothing more than a misunderstanding trying to clay pottery out of sand. But sand will remain sand right? And clay is clay. And we are nothing but a silly coincidence that should have ended the moment our eyes met.
It took me time, but now I realized that my fingers were my enemies. And my mind was a bit high.
Now I look back at this ruin we shared, and realize how simple it all was. We were no poetry.
Your promises were just promises you couldn’t keep, and your lies were just words that never resembled any truth. You kept me there out of fear of loneliness, and never out of love, and I stayed out of attachment, and never because of my own will.
We were something that should have ended a long time ago, but we kept twirling around the same corners and walking on the same paved roads leading to dead ends until we became that dead end.
I’ll let my emotions subside, and flip that scratched-on page. I’ll dry those stories into vapor in my own mind, and throw away the illusions I’ve carried for so long.
You shouldn’t have even become a sentence. You should have stayed a meaningless lame phrase lost somewhere between the metaphors of a poem.