2017

July

The cold reminds me of my heart, desolate and sorrowful. I am a sucker for things that make me cry and I'm slowly realizing why I've had it for you. I was stuck in the misconception that we're meant to be even after I had tasted another girl's lips on yours and I knew this was the time for me to pack my bags and leave.
But what bags? The same ones full of clothes that smell of nothing but you, mistake, regrets, illusions and grief.
I am too old for make believe, and maybe I am naive but my ears heard all of your lies but I love you, I know love like the back of my hand and it looks nothing like this.
Now I'm constantly reminded of each time I held your hand and saw geographic maps of places I could go if only I could let go and step in the world of comfort, where love is a common norm and sunflower farms and dancing around were in form.
But each time I tried to leave, something kept on pulling me back, not you... not me, but the consequences.
I knew I wouldn't subdue them.