Romance

I don’t want to play it cool. I don’t want to keep telling myself I’m over you, because I’m not. I’m not.

It’s frustrating. Against my better judgement, I end up reading your words and make myself angry, angry and so confused because why does it hurt ? Why do I still feel for you ? What did you want from me ?

What do you want from me ?

Answering to my pride, I put up virtual barricades to force myself away from the curves of your letters. I forbid myself to spill ink on you, but words drown my mind and, soon, seas of blue flood over sheets of paper, pieces I never want you to see.

I don’t want you to know the power I give you over me.

Your words deceive my heart, making a mess out of my head, just like he did to you with his own. Your murmurs through my screen leave me on edge, veins clenched, waiting for the wheel to turn, sweet turning sour, while I’m left with unanswered questions. Did you knew ? Did you ever notice the feelings I had for you, despite me being blind to them ? Do you know about them still ?

I don’t know. I don’t know you. You are out of my grasp. The romance I try to choke out of my heart is made of illusions, of everything that never was and never will be.

I don’t want to be vulnerable with you. Yet I want to feel vulnerable. It’s the only way I can be intimate with the words whispered out of my soul. With my art. With the world. The muse shows up for the brave.

I don’t want to play it cool. I can’t forget the person I loved in a few weeks. My heart doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t matter if you know that I still listen to our song and mean those words when I sing along. It doesn’t matter if you know how beautiful love feels underneath the pain when I think about you. It doesn’t matter if you know I’m still vulnerable to you. I don’t want you to know. But I want to know who I am, not who I want to be.

I lied when I wrote I moved on. I’m not over you. I’ll be. God knows I’m waiting for that moment with great impatience. Right now, spending some time with myself, I’m allowed to write about you, as many pieces as needs be. I give myself permission.

I’ll run out of words for you too.

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