This is how it ends

This is how it ends
With me acting like I don't care that you are leaving
Saying that you are not worth fighting for
Reminding myself that this didn't mean much

We were never really a couple anyway, were we?

This is how it ends

With me laughing at the intensity of the flame we shared

At the promises of eternal love you swore while in the throes of passion

At the futile efforts I made to rekindle our dying flame

We were not really committed anyway, were we?

This is how it ends

With me forgetting the taste of your flavoured kisses 

feigning amnesia on the dates you routinely cancelled

And the texts you routinely forgot to answer

We were never more than 'jus talking', were we?

This is how it ends

With me refusing to cry over the promises left unfulfilled

And the climaxes yet unreached

You didn't just rip my heart apart anyway, did you?
Because we were never really a 'we', were we?

BACK TO THE PEN

I have not written in over a year. Well, I have. But text messages and emails and work reports or letters do not really count. I have not written a blog post in over a year.

Weirdly, I am content in spite of this. Because I have found other ways to explore and express myself. I've found other ways to interact with the many thoughts, emotions, and situations I experience. I've matured. I enjoy short walks in the evening. I've decided what genre of music soothes or energizes me depending on what I need. I've found diverse ways to connect with people and share my thoughts. I've explored some habits I'd like to keep and some I need to boot.

At first, I stopped writing because I got busy at my job and couldn't make the time. Then I had the time but my heart wasn't at peace. And I couldn't bear to write because every time I was alone with my thoughts, they went to a place I didn't want to dwell. Then I found ways to deal with my insecurities and control my fantasies. But, I'd already become lazy. I was already reading less and less. I had pulled away from the things and the habits that nurture my inspiration. So even when I did sit to write, my thoughts would not pull together into words I could shape

In 2018, I want to get back to writing. Because I am lonely without my scribbles. Because I love the person writing makes me. Because I like how literature and poetry influence my relationships and my ability to intimately connect with the people I love. When I'm writing, I feel in sync with my purpose and I'm better placed to pursue my many dreams. When I'm writing, I don't struggle to express what I'm feeling. It is easier to ponder on the diverse experiences I encounter.

I want to once again write about my experiences. I want to write about the world as I am in it. I want to pen poetry again. I want to explore new subjects.
I want to write my heart out.

So I shall write!

THREE MINUTES OF YOU

Minute 1:

She likes you.

The you that tickles her desires
Like a sorcerer summons reluctant ghosts to awaken for Halloween.

So smoothly that she laughs her jaws and ribs into an ache,
Her eyes sparkling like darts of bonfire flames.

She's star-struck every time your attention is hers.

Perhaps this is how she trips.

She wants you.

The you that's quick to deeply and devilishly etch into the soul of her nerves.

So deeply and wittingly weaving in,
That she cannot laugh at a joke without wondering whether you would find it funny.

So devilishly embedding into her heart of hearts
That your name is the only song.

Perhaps this is how she falls for you.

She deifies you.

The you whose demons scrub up and dress up for dates with her.

So charmingly that fantasy replaces reality,

Perhaps, you should have dug a shallower pit.

Perhaps this is how deeply you wanted her to fall for you.

Minute 2:

She has fallen.

Not for you.
Of course not.
She's wiser than that.
But, is she?

She's probably only fallen for the idea of you.

Her desires have been playing in her dreams,
Casting you as the handsome knight.

Your elegant fabrication of gentlemaness
So finely cast, she willingly loses her feet.

She has fallen.

For you that she sees in her fantasies.

She wants to capture the mundane moments with you,
To freeze them in little pockets of time.

She's no fool.
She knows she might soon need the comfort of memory.

Fuck boys don't last.

She has fallen.
For you.

And you last long enough to count.

So she begins to build ice castles in the desert.

And you bring the paint for your castle walls.

Surely you're not one to disappoint.

Minute 3: 

She is alone.

You left.
And with her sanity too.

The fantasies she found comfort in now mock her.

Your fingers no longer trace maps
To uncharted paradise on her flesh.

And she knows you shouldn't come back.

She is bitter.

Memories of you are but torture.

Where you drew laughter on her ribs
That tattoo now spells torment.

When she recalls your caresses,
Emptiness confronts her.

Promises once spoken are now drawings on sand,
Erased and drowned in tears.

She is awake.

The pieces of her broken heart pound as a whole.

She knows she'll fall again,
Perhaps for herself next time.

Holding on to her fairytales,
She must keep going.

But what's this space in her heart for,
If not toads and beasts?