I don't Love you anymore by Rithvik singh

part 3

Your heart is a crime scene. There are old letters stacked on the shelves. The place reeks of memories. There's blood in every corner, but there's also love. So much love.

More often than not, the person you wouldn't mind burning cities for is the same person who wouldn't mind leaving you in the fire. You wouldn't mind taking your life for someone who wouldn't stop taking you for granted.

My heart is a monastery in the land of atheists. Prayers don't make sense to them, but all my prayers aren't for them anyway. They've always been for you, only you.

It takes years to let go, they say, but how many years?

How many years before I finally make coffee in the morning and not add extra sugar to it because you liked it that way? When will I go to the mall and not spend an hour at the bookstore because you loved books more than you loved me? When will I stop taking pictures of the sky as it changes color and saving them to a folder I wish I could send you? When will I start loving roses more than sunflowers? When will I stop letting my life be yours, knowing you're not mine anymore? It's not the same for everyone, you see. It took you a few seconds to let go, but it's taking me a lifetime.

The flowers you gave me are kept between the pages of books I've loved all my life.

I pretend not to love you anymore, but catch myself opening those books every once in a while.

They treat you like a room they visit on random days. You don't have to lose yourself for someone whose love comes in waves.

Some people are like songs stuck in your head. You miss them like you hum that song-unknowingly but constantly. You don't remember the lyrics, but you don't know them well either. All you know is that you cannot get them out of your head.

Without me, you'll never run out of mouths to kiss, but you'll always run out of love. Always.

Honeybees would be jealous, you've got a voice so sweet.

There are flowers in our irises that bloom every time we meet.

May your grief leave you with empathy-enough to make kindness your home, come what may.
You're not the kind of flower that can be plucked and put in someone's hair.

You're the kind of flower people find too pretty to pluck.

The kind of flower that deserves to keep blooming.

We're in a pastry shop, and your voice is the sweetest thing here. There are mulberry trees outside, but I cannot shift focus from your eyes. Love is overflowing inside you; I see it shining through your eyes.

Sometimes, loving someone feels like an autumn that refuses to leave. That's when you know it's time to let go.

You're a letter of hope in a concentration camp. A solitary flower in a barren land. There are poems stitched into your soul. Flowers blush when you touch them, I've been told. You're everything magic in a world too ordinary. The kind of person people write novels about.