purpleassnigga-blog

“After he was gone, I didn’t write for four months. I couldn’t remember how to spell anything except for his name. I replayed that park bench conversation every day, and I could never bring myself to go back. I cried for three days straight, hoping he might wake to the sounds of the ocean. I kept shivering like my muscles remembered those cold nights but couldn’t remember the heat of his arms.
That night when we decided we could handle looking in each other’s eyes again, my hands shook for the whole drive over. Over the span of four years, I saw him in his glasses exactly twice, but there he sat across from me with thick-framed brown glasses. He still wore his class ring, and I still remembered how the metal felt against my skin. Our words settled into a place that felt more like a dream than a memory.
Sometimes I convince myself that I am no longer in love, because I don’t want to admit that I still find his fingerprints on my veins. I feel him like forest fires in my bones, and I’m so fucking sick of burning, but I’ve forgotten how to be anything but ash. I have woken up in tears too many times from dreams where the only thing I remember is his laugh. I stifle my sobs so no one notices I still love the one person I shouldn’t.
The idea of him with someone else feels like knives between each and every rib, and I know how hypocritical that is. I have tried on someone else’s affection, but it never fits the way his did. I tried to write him another poem to explain it all but the only words I could find said “he likes me because I am beautiful; you loved me when I wasn’t. He uses the words ‘I don’t love you’ as a threat because he follows them up with ‘yet.’” How loudly do I need to scream the words “I’m sorry” until I feel I am worth forgiving? I still don’t remember how to live in a world where I am not his.
Coffee still smells like his hands. Winter still feels like his arms. That song still sounds like his laugh. He is everywhere and nowhere, the worst combination of wholeness and breaking. I haven’t touched him in nine months, haven’t seen him in two, but if you listen closely enough you can still hear my heart shatter. Touch my fingers, they feel like wanting. Here is my ribcage, it looks like crumbling. I am drowning in a sea of missing him, and my lungs aren’t sure they even want to come up for air. There’s a reason I don’t get drunk and it looks an awful lot like his eyes. I don’t cry over his smile anymore but my mascara is still somehow always smeared. I collect too many bookmarks because I am still saving his place. There is one word used eleven times too many in this poem.
I love him.
Still.”

— he went on a date with someone who wasn’t me /// k.b.
(via where-echoes-come-to-rest)

(via isadquotes)

“The worst thing about a break up is losing your best friend, the person you told everything to and they always made it okay. You grow to be so alike and you can still see parts of him in yourself and you still remember all the stupid inside jokes you shared. And you aren’t fooling anyone because you still perk up at the sound of his name and everyone can see in your eyes how much you still love him. Yet all the while he’s moved on and that makes you feel sick to your stomach because you are so hopelessly hung up on him and he just thinks your a hopeless mess”

— diary entry from 8/2/16 (via words0fheartache)

(via isadquotes)