SoMuchYou

I’ve never struggled to write about anybody before, except you. And I’m still trying to figure out if that’s a good or bad thing because all the poetry I write is icy, blue eyes and tear-soaked pillows and talking to the moon out of the window at 2am when I used to talk to him. But he left. All my poetry is is watching people walk away and bleeding fingertips because the shards of broken hearts bear an awful resemblance to broken glass. Maybe I don’t write about you because you haven’t broken my heart, yet. Maybe I don’t write about you because you don’t make my head pound or my world spin or the ground shake like people say true loves should. But maybe I don’t write about you because you make me inexplicably happy and I don’t know how to write about things that do anything other than break me.