:(

Falling in love with you was everything I was terrified of and excited for at the same time. It was intense, scary and absolutely breathtaking. It was that can’t eat, can’t sleep, and can’t get enough of a person feeling. I met you, and suddenly didn’t know how I could ever live a day without you.

😐, I didn’t think I would ever have to learn how to. I really didn’t believe that a day would come that I would have to try and figure out how to coexist in this scary world without you. I didn’t think I would ever need to think about it, because it wasn’t going to ever happen.

Well, boy, was I wrong there.

I lost you in the same way that I fell in love with you, suddenly and then all at once.

It was like one day my life was everything I had ever dreamed of and the next I was figuring how to carry on without my favorite part of every day.

Time continues to pass and my love for you doesn’t seem to be fading any time soon. No matter how hard I try to put what the two of us shared behind me, I can’t seem to let you go. I can’t forget the way you loved me. I don’t know how to forget the way you made me feel a way I had never felt before.

I have been in love before. At least I thought I had. And all I know at this point is that absolutely nothing has compared to the pain of moving forward in this life without you.

I don’t like it. I never wanted to know a world that I didn’t get to share with you. I never wanted to imagine a life that I had to deal with without you by my side. Since the day I met you, I was certain I was never going to have to worry about falling for someone again. It was always going to be you.

So what happens when it isn’t? What am I supposed to do now that I have to carry on without you? At what point does this painful mess become easier? At what point am I able to wake up in the morning or lie in bed at night and not have you be the first and last thoughts that enter my head?

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified that I am never going to be over you.

I am absolutely scared out of my mind that I am going to wake up one day laying next to the person I chose to spend my life with, wishing that it were you.

I would be completely fooling myself if I said I didn’t wonder if you felt the same. Part of me hopes with every fiber of my being that you are having these same thoughts and struggles.

Secretly, I am wishing that you are missing me in the same way that I miss you.

You’re the story I tell when the wind asks about my love for sunsets, the punctuation I erase when our reflections sink into the shore. How does every sign we construct explain how some people are meant to fall in love, but aren’t meant to be together? How do new constellations form every time I whisper your name, but the night still drinks the caffeine we left at our feet?

I just wanted to be the owner of the galaxies dripping from your eyes, the piece you could live without when our hands are grasping for the leaves falling short of a title we’re still rearranging. The less we talk, the more words mean. The less we smile, the more I find your laughter in every six-string song.

On my best days, I’m just a breath away from you, but sometimes, I just need a little help getting out of my head. Or when I need to get off the bed, some words push us towards insanity–if you were ever mad at me, would you speak your thoughts? If you ever fell in love with me, would you tell me? If you wanted to know something unusual–I’ve got you. I enjoy the oddness of questions. Like how it sends us on a quest for the truthful answers midway.

I don’t like acronyms because the shortness of letters can never compare to the shortness in my breathing when it comes to the lines of... Oh my god, you’re beautiful tonight. The less we smile, the more I find your atmosphere most needed–some laughter controls the bleeding, some lovers control the weather, and some nights I need both. Some nights I seem to choke on my regrets; it’s never dinnertime when you’ve got so much on your mind.

It’s never writing if you’ve done nothing right. You’re always wrong if you start crying in the middle of a song that triggered certain feelings that you shouldn’t be having. You’re always spacing out whenever the commas start to show how many mistakes you’ve made, how many mistakes it took for you to finally get it, how many apologies it took for you to be forgiven, how many I love you’s were needed for someone to feel like you loved them and not just for the sake of not being alone,
how many nights you had to spend living in a dead memory of won’t you stay with me for another hour, how many oceans you had to cry before you realized people sink with you every time you damage them, how many volcanoes you became because stress makes smoking this much easier, how many pills you had to take to forget a name, how many nights you stayed high because shower thoughts brought you back to the razors,
how many mornings you spent fucked up because of one fuck up, how many years you’ll toss away to find yourself, how many weeks it’ll take to rewire your brain after a breakup, how many days it’ll take to unfeel everything, how many hours it’ll take to unlove a feeling, how many seconds it’ll take to get it right, how many commas you’ll keep count off to not lose yourself tonight, and how many times you’ll leave yourself in the palms of others instead of your own.

If I’m ever on my last dollar, if I’m ever in my last heartbeat, if I’m ever at the end of the line, if I ever forget about you, if I never loved you, if I ever destroyed myself to recreate myself, if I ever feel good enough to get over this depression, if I ever stop and stare into the middle of nowhere, and if I never return to who I used to be–remember that this life will cut like a very thin knife into your ribs in search for another comma for another run-on sentence that should not have happened because you always loved to make mistakes without a proper ending or a period to your era of impressional impressions to impress no one in particular you can have all of my mistakes you can have all of my errors you can have all of this red ink to scribble all over this poem you can have my life and call it death to the last day when we’ll never meet again.