I’m stepping down, around, falling into this. I want more than wasted time. Want to feel my back against the sunset, fading into purple-red reminders of who we were back then. Your reality is a joke. I want to taste the sweetness of every moment, feel it cold on my face like those old silk boxers you used to wear. I am not the girl you used to know.
Now, breathe out.
For a second I thought she was you. I wrote the sweetest poems across her face, so many wasted lines gathered in the pockets of lost moments where we stood holding hands and I thought I couldn’t move without this.
But everything changes when the lights flicker on and here we are in this room, your smile, once beautiful, twists into irony against fate. I can look at you and tell you we have never been soul mates because soul mates don’t put nails in your palms and feet, crucify you every day with words and hands and then tell you how beautiful you are when you cry. Soul mates don’t dance around you with a tether in their hands wrapped so tightly around your feet that you actually question whether you really need feet and pray that one of these days they can change you into something spectacular like so many fucking fairy tales do.
And honestly, I never believed in soul mates to begin with. I believe in love…love…like children do, like mothers do, like best friends do, like lovers do. Somehow I got lost with you, drowned myself in your angry words and wore them like they were made for me, but I know better now.
Don’t ask me why I’m still walking like this, like that, how I came untethered and how you ended up alone. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you or stand up for you or hold your sick secrets for you so no one can see them. And maybe I’m just a little bit angry.
But you are so fucking beautiful when you cry.