I’m not crying. You’re crying. But all jokes aside. Everyone isn’t meant for long distance. Shut sucks. But it’s ok

Mkay so to give some context to the twitter post:

the problem poets have is that we really just want to live inside a poem. we want our lives to be like the ink on pages, we want bruises on our kneecaps and kisses on our foreheads so we can have love and pain in equal measures and i want to wake up with you making pancakes in my kitchen, i want your bags packed and your hands full with two plane tickets, i want you to say “i’m coming with you, we’re going on an adventure” i want you to be as wild and full of romance as i write you but you’re a human being and today i woke up alone and after awhile got a text from you asking if i needed a ride to the airport. there were no flowers when you came for me, no interfering with the intercom so you could read me a dumb sonnet you wrote last night while drunk. there was only the sound of flights taking off and lovers kissing each other over and over until it’s kind of awkward because the goodbye seems to stretch out over forever and there was no teddy bear no promise ring no big send off you just promised to call and gave me a hug, see the problem with being a poet is that you get all sorts of wrong ideas about what it means to be in love because you can hear music in what sounds like noise to other people, you crave the kind of flashbang that your words can create, you romanticize the ugly because it makes for good writing and you drain the beautiful until it comes undone, you forget other people need space to breathe, that you live in the captured moment of too-perfect impossibility, you forget that he can’t read your mind, that she doesn’t really like your writing, that they would rather watch sports than go out tonight, you forget that most people don’t try to make fireworks out of everyday life but eventually, after writing more pages about magic than kisses you’ve received you mess up and actually start to believe.