Why do you say
‘I love you’
When what you really mean
Is you love the idea of me
Of waking up in the morning
With someone thinking about you
Why do I say
‘I love you too’
When what I really mean is
I am lonely,
Close and hard
And maybe these crooked fragments
Will piece themselves back together
Why do you say ‘I miss you’
When what you really mean is
You miss the summer
But when it already was summer
You said you miss the winter
So I say
‘I miss you too’
When what I really mean to say is
I miss you like the sun
It may set or rise
But it is always there
It exists not just because
I want it to
So you said
And I knew
From the moment I met you
That it will come to this
That’s why doorknobs are made in pairs
People are meant to leave
And maybe that’s the reason why the locks
In doorknobs are on the inside
You aren’t supposed to stop people from leaving
If they want to
So I said nothing
But what I really wanted to say was
I’ll never forget you
But I hope I do
“Hands learn more than minds do. Hands learn how to hold other hands. How to grip pencils and mould poetry. How to tickle pianos, and dribble a basketball and grip the handles of a bicycle. How to hold old people and touch babies. I love hands like I love people. They are the maps and compasses with which we navigate our way through life. Some people read palms to tell you your future, but I read hands to tell your past. Each scar makes a story worth telling. Each callused palm, each cracked knuckle is a missed punch or years in a factory.” – Sarah Kay (Hands)
(photo not mine, credits to the owner)
Across the room,
Your piercing gaze met mine.
It felt divine,
It was like coming home
After being away for so long.
It was like watching a sunset,
Over and over again.
Painting the skies orange,
Taking away all the misery and blues.
It was like the smell of rain
In the dry concrete floor.
Petrichor, that’s the word for it.
But what’s the word for,
But loving it at the same time?
And I know how you hated
The color orange,
‘It looks absurd’ You used to say
But how can you love
Sunsets and falling leaves
But hate its color?
I wish there was a word for that.
When you said you loved me
How I still felt lonely,
Even when you hold me.
I wish there was a word for that,
When you hate the parts
But love the whole.
Because that’s what it felt like
When you left
Love is when I hear your voice,
Rebounding in every corner of the room
yet still managed to find its way to me.
Love is when you touch my hands,
Sending jolts of electricity
As if you’re keeping me alive.
We could’ve survived anywhere.
Love is when I go to sleep,
And I know that you are somewhere
In this world, breathing and living
And the mere existence of you,
Makes the darkness worthwhile.
Love is when I touch you,
My hands in your breasts,
Your lips on my neck,
Our souls intertwining, like deep roots
I feel most alive when I’m with you.
Love is when I know you are smiling
even though I’m sure as hell I can’t see.
It’s not your attractive facade
Nor your arousing figure.
Love isn’t something you can see.
I awoke to the sound of the morning breeze
The wind brushed against my face
And I wondered if you felt it too
Across the ocean,
from thousands of miles away
I like to think that you did
I like to think that even though the world scattered us like seeds,
The winds connected us.
It’s as if the winds felt my longing.
I long for your voice,
A music that used to resonate
Inside this hollow body.
I yearn for your touch,
Our bodies pressed together like the pages of a book,
We were part of a whole.
But you’re not here now.
You’re across the ocean,
From thousands of miles away.
A pen in your hand,
And another man’s hand on the other.
Sometimes I wonder if you still write about me,
Sometimes I wonder when I’ll stop.
“I want you always to remember me.
Will you remember that I existed,
and that I stood next to you here like this?”
– Naoko (Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami)
I remember it like it was yesterday
As lucid as the light that used to flow through me.
I remember the voices,
Screams that passed through endless thick walls
I remember the flying splinters of broken marriage,
Its fragments cut through my hands,
The wounds never healed.
I remember the tears,
I didn’t understand why it wouldn’t stop,
I always thought that the tears will wash away what’s hurting,
But I’ve been crying a river.
And the wounds never did heal.
Some nights I forget,
Some nights I laugh.
Some nights I even feel like I’m truly happy.
But some nights,
I just want to leave everything behind.
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
Why do I allow you to keep on destroying me,
just as I finished taping bones in my sunken body.
Why do I never get tired of building myself up
just so you could tear me down.
Why does the idea of you and me