The End Of Whiskey Bottles Are Supposed To Make Me Forget You, Not Remember You Twice As Hard.

Dear Harvey,

I never thought that I’d have to write a goodbye letter to you. I guess I just thought that we would end at least as friends, but it’s been two weeks since our conversation and I wonder if we just said goodbye without saying goodbye. This is the part where I start to wonder if the last ten months ever meant anything to you and if it was all just a moment in your life you’ll never think about again. Strangers to lovers and back to strangers again. I never was one for saying goodbye. Even if I see you ten years from now, I think my heart will still feel heavy. I think a part of me is ready to let go. To let what happened between us rest. Holding onto you is starting to hurt, and love should never hurt.

I do love you and the thing is... I’m only seventeen. And seventeen is a really inconvenient time to be in love with someone. I hope you know though, that I don’t blame you for anything. Sometimes people hurt other people and things like that need to happen for people to grow.

I think maybe we did belong to each other just for a slight moment it felt right. I’d like to blame time; she is an awful person to some. I don’t think she has ever liked me.

I’d like to blame those stupid books I read. The true blasphemy of literature is the romanticization of romance. They make it beautiful—all soft words, and elegant lines—and enchanting, with magic sparkling in the margins. And you can feel it in the depths of your soul, an unexplored ocean of laughter and tears and dreams all melded together. The yearning for a kiss that brushes against the steady and so so warm pulsing beat of life—against the smooth skin of a lover's neck. The desperation to touch another being and feel that they’re alive, right there next to you—right there, and never leaving. To love and be loved is a jewel among treasures and all that we each seek—all that we each desire.

It burns and it burns, and it burns. The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made you face your choices alone. But not in this one. You would sail to Troy, and I would follow, even into death. But I'm afraid we have reached the end of our love story. I’m turning to the next page, and you’ll stay on the one behind. Only to be read when my daughter who in twenty years will cry to me about how she loves a boy so much it burns her. I did too. I still do.

sometimes the people we want forever aren’t always the people that want us forever, and that’s okay.

Kissing him felt dipping my whole tongue in sugar and strawberries

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—

saving 18.

It’s the year 2030, 23:55pm October 17th. I’m 25 as sit by the window in my studio apartment that is hidden away by the blinding lights and skyscraper buildings in New York City. The sky is dark, the stars are visible, and the moon is a perfect crescent shape. My window glass in covered in small raindrops and for once, the loudest city has become nothing more than a hum.

The washing machine is running and the flowers I bought from Lucies flower shop two days ago have died.

The hot chocolate I made is resting just near my foot, the microwave broke a week ago, so I had no choice but to use boiling kettle water.

Delilah my tabby cat who I self-adopted on 8th street two years ago when I first moved to the city sits right in front of me. Admiring the city, I grew up loving so much.

The clock, which seems to be the only working thing in this apartment, hangs low not in the centre and too far to the left side, on the wall near my front door now reads 23:58pm.

A sigh leaves my lips. 120 seconds and you’re turning 24 somewhere.

Slowly I remove myself from the windowsill and tiptoe over to the kitchen, floorboards creaking under my steps. Opening the fridge to the cupcakes I bought three days ago in Mary’s bakery just right of Cornelia Street, I set them down on the kitchen counter. Admiring the chocolate goodness that sits before. The ones I’ve stopped myself from messaging and telling you about. You always loved my chocolate cupcakes when I made them, would you believe me if I told you I found ones better? Opening the draw, I pull out a pack of candles, the perfect shade of light ocean blue. Just like your eyes. Picking up the lighter also alongside of them. It’s been eight years, and still, I love you no less.

Placing the candle, on top of one of the cupcakes, I light it. The clock now reads 23:59pm. One minute my love, I whisper to myself.

00:00am. Taking the cupcake in my hand I tiptoe back over to the windowsill.

“Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re in love with. I hope you’re happy and I hope you’re safe. Happy 24th birthday.”

Blowing out the candle with a shaky breath, I felt a tear prickle and slide down my face.

July.

July unfolds herself in a mess of aching limbs and a stretched-out heart. Swollen. A dream-haze. How slowly the summer months drift by; blush coloured clouds, coral lights, the world dusted in rose pink and a breathless awaiting. An awakening kiss. It seems that these days are a litte forsaken. The prince never comes/the angles stop believing in us. We breathe a sigh of relief. The sky relaxes her muscles and the birds fly home.

“I never meant to hurt you”

but you did.

the most.

I hope he knows that it’s him I love most. That from now, in every life, I’ll search for him. It always has and always will be him.

the more I grow older, the more I realise, poets are liars. missing someone is not a romanticise ghost that haunts the corner of my room. It’s not remembering the smell with the flashes of good memories resurfacing . it’s hearing someone that sounds like them and your throat catching and then suddenly you’re unable to speak. It’s smelling what they used to smell like, and an uneasy amount of home sick rises up to your stomach and all of a sudden it pours out. It’s going to bed with a drowned pillow because the moment you close your eyes, they’re there. Picture perfect, as clears as day. the way they felt burns your body from the inside out. failing in love with someone is like the loving the devil, you’re lucky if you’re anything but a pawn in his silly little game.

it takes a certain kinda soul to see the beauty in someone’s darkness. Perhaps the truest kinda love is loving the darkest most ugliest parts of someone, and understanding that you might not be able to change them, but you’ll love them anyway.