Loved Letters

Slave me into your routine, kiss me before the sun could, kiss me on places only the sun would, for I live the day my toothbrush find its home in your bathroom sink, the day my name feels old in your lips

What a cruel world, for it to not let me have you, why does your favorite flower grow on my garden? Why have your ambitions linger? Why have your after taste still settle in my mouth?

My hands are calloused by how tightly I hold onto you

I miss it, the feel of cold stainless steel with your name carved in it pressed against my sternum. Your initials imprinted on my chest with how tightly I held it. I miss you

I carry lip balm in the fear of losing the layer of my lips that once touched yours

My hands curl at rest as if it knew only to clasp your hand and intwine my fingers into the crevices of yours it calls home

You are every star exhausted from my wishes manifest, every dried up four leaf clover in between the pages of my books, every fallen eyelash, and every birthday cake candle.

Someday, sometime far away, we will both call in sick. With a hoarse voice practiced sparingly, and an email prepared in advance. As gravity pulls harder waking up in a bed with you

Stars explode, storms brew, and waves surges as the universe grieves of your existence, mourning the fact that you are temporary.

And I’ve memorized the road to your house, roamed these streets in my mind, and in my dreams I walk in those pavements on my way home

Just the very thought of someone else’s arms around you damages my soul, that the thought of another’s on your lips that I love punctures it. I still don’t know the purpose of my life here and how I love to see you shine to have found yours, so please let me live in the delusion that I was made just to love you, and love you for the rest of it all.

And when regret lingers even in broad daylight, clinging to me like a shadow casted by the sun, know that it is real. Had my eyes not be tainted before you, had my rose tinted view of love not been cracked before, would have I been less doubtful? Would I be sitting beside you in shadows instead of casting them alone?

There are still bits of pieces of you, residue of pretenses disguised as promises that linger. I am over you, yes, but you have stained me like glass, colored me in your ways that could only be removed by shattering. I like the way I turned out.