Having a crush on someone is nice until you start losing your mind.

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@epiphanyblvd
Having a crush on someone is nice until you start losing your mind.

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i sleep in on the mornings i dream of you. i turn over and close my eyes and fall back asleep, hoping that if i stay there long enough, you'll come back.sometimes you do. sometimes you're standing in the kitchen, making coffee. sometimes you're sitting on the edge of my bed, telling me about things that never happened. sometimes you laugh, and for a second i forget that grief is real. for a second i forget that i have spent years learning how to live without you.
so i stay asleep when i can. because in dreams, you are not a memory. you are not a photograph tucked into a drawer or a name that catches in my throat. you are alive in the way only dreams can make someone alive.
then morning comes.
the alarm rings, or sunlight slips through the blinds, and i open my eyes to a room that has never known you. a room where your voice doesn't echo and your footsteps never reach the hallway.
and for a few terrible seconds, i forget. for a few merciful seconds, i forget.
then i remember all over again. you are still dead. the years have not changed it. the seasons have not changed it. i have grown older, taller, different, and somehow the fact of your absence remains exactly where i left it. waiting for me every morning.
the mind is cruel enough to return them to you for a little while. just long enough to remember what it felt like to have them.
just long enough to become a daughter again. and every morning, it takes them away again.
"and for a few terrible seconds, i forget; for a few merciful seconds, i forget." grief truly is unescapable, is it not?
who was I before you?
the trickle of cold grass pricks my fingertips, yet it doesn't pierce - it never will, for poison only wills what it wants to touch - and as I gnaw at a freshly brazen scar - it metamorphoses into rust, tracing down my spine as i lay beside you, and my tongue reaches out before I do, intertwined with a possibility that you bite it, and so I'd perch upon an apple, watching like eve once did, for alas, I am the devil's advocate. I shall dwell in my own silence, for all is dead as long as I shut my eyes - yet, as I open them once again, you are there; in raw, unhonest, unrequited truth, I watch through a stained glass window of my mind, for you are a reality of what I conjured, through limerance or to cope? is for the heart to know: I never will. and so, the world will move beneath my feet, a kaleidoscope of faces I've longed for, of eyes I once knew, and for mouths I'd wish I fed with my own diligence: me, myself, and I. and I never think of him, for on nights like these, I look at the moon and ask: "who was I before you?" Λγγγγβ¦γγγ.γγ. γβΛγ.γγγγγ . β¦γγγ γΛγγγγ . β β. γγγ.ββ γγΛγγ γγ*γγ γγβ¦γγγ.γγ.γγγβ¦γΛ γγγγβΛγ.Λγγγγγγ.γγ. γβΛγ.γγγγ γγ γγγγ β¦
π all you said was, "hi", and i remembered i loved you
there is a certain kind of dreamer i become in the nights i fall asleep to love songs. there are certain corners of my mind only you can occupy. certain dreams only you could ever be casted in. i want your words, i want your words more than i want your hand in mine. i want to know your mind like my own. i want to be your safe pair of hands.
i want to learn the architecture of your silences. the meanings behind the pauses between your sentences. i want to know what frightens you enough to keep you awake, and what softens you enough to finally let you rest.
there are so many people in this world who will touch you without ever knowing you. i think that is the tragedy of being alive. i do not want to love you like that. i want to know the shape of your anger, the small rituals that keep you together, the songs you play when you cannot stand the sound of your own thoughts. i want to play them for you.
i want to be let into the unremarkable parts of you. the tired parts. the ugly parts. the parts you hide behind jokes and lowered voices. i think love is less about being adored and more about being understood.
and maybe that is selfish of me. maybe i want to know you so thoroughly that loneliness could never fully reach either of us again. maybe i want to look at you one day and feel the terrifying relief of being known in return. i want you to know me so well that it scares me. i do not typically want this. i have never wanted to be known before.
i have spent so much of my life making myself smaller, blurrier, easier to leave. i made a home out of half-truths and changed subjects and carefully curated versions of myself. it is easier, i think, to survive when nobody can reach the softest parts of you. but you make me want to be witnessed in full.
i want you to notice the strange ways i grieve. the things i pretend not to care about. the tenderness i bury underneath cruel jokes and sharp edges. i want you to know the stories behind all my worst habits. i want you to hear the things i almost say out loud, but do not.
and it terrifies me, how badly i want this. because once someone truly knows you, they gain the ability to hurt you with frightening precision. they learn where your voice shakes. they learn which silences mean something is wrong. they learn the exact shape of your ache.
but still, despite all of that, i want to hand you every key to me.
there was happiness because of you, and there'll be happiness after you
labyrinth
my love for avoidance is one that may be deemed abnormal, but it is who i am, and always will be; an angel but never the one who carries pride on my shoulders- i was never chosen nor wanted for the love i'd to give, once again, my obsession with sonder protruded onto me- reached to soften my fall into a dissent of delusion and questions; round and round they go, a cycle of never-ending romanticism. and there he was, in front of me all along; my eyes fixed on his gaze. for a moment- and alas, the debrief arising: is it he who sends me into a gold rush every night? searching for a glint of happiness in something that is otherwise askew? oh how i wish it was me on his irises' horizon; autumn rolls around and yet it's he that is in my head- knocking on my heart, and eagerly waiting for it to be opened. though i know, it never will out of my fear of being a stranger for the rest of his days. love doesn't last forever, does it? do i repeat a hopeless past time and again at the moment that an acceptance is pursued? what if he's an outlier to my fingertips that graze my skin? his hands clasped into mine, completing a life puzzle i'd always anticipated for a valued embrace to my heart, sunken down in desperation of what comes next. would he ricochet the value i have to offer? with his touch, turn it into gold? shine a light on who i am and more, for what life has to reciprocate? for all i know, I'm falling into the labyrinth of love, again. Λγγγγβ¦γγγ.γγ. γβΛγ.γγγγγ . β¦γγγ γΛγγγγ . β β. γγγ.ββ γγΛγγ γγ*γγ γγβ¦γγγ.γγ.γγγβ¦γΛ γγγγβΛγ.Λγγγγγγ.γγ. γβΛγ.γγγγ γγ γγγγ β¦
π uh oh, i'm falling in love again

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crestfallen
do you ever ponder over each look? over each smile, each thought, each word was spoken; does any of it resonate with our colours? of each otherβs lives, can a single emotion describe- what was forsaken to be the end for us? everything closes its doors, whether it be a chapter- that you wish had just begun, or a thought that was said out loud without hesitation.
sentimentalism is the pure fascination for what couldβve been, rather than was- itβs that agitation that sets a want free, for whatever it relishes itβs that fear that gives birth to a cycle of flush- or anticipating my tears falling out of my reach. the thought of being wanted is beautiful, and i yearn to be your embrace- for the rest of my days, crestfallen in my emotions hoping that you wonβt be the one to turn them into ash wistfully.
and my longing that you wonβt be an epitome of the past, turns into complete hopelessness. youβre within my reach and iβd loathe if youβd be the contrarian- to what weβve created, my affinity would shatter and dissolve- into my tear-soaked flight. please donβt ever be a stranger in a story that has just begun, my yearning isnβt one without a fracas. iβm aware in the end that the only heart broken will be my own.
Λγγγγβ¦γγγ.γγ. γβΛγ.γγγγγ . β¦γγγ γΛγγγγ . β β. γγγ.ββ γγΛγγ γγ*γγ γγβ¦γγγ.γγ.γγγβ¦γΛ γγγγβΛγ.Λγγγγγγ.γγ. γβΛγ.γγγγ γγ γγγγ β¦
π there was happiness because of you