EndlessWriter

I used to have edges—

They said revenge wouldn’t fix anything

It’s 10pm on a Saturday night. You keep talking about college and your dreams. I keep dreaming about the future we could’ve had. I reminisce about the way you used to talk to me, your calls, and the way you said my name over the phone. We loved each other more than any poet could put in words. Yet we had the ending any other poet had, tragic.

In another lifetime, me and you we are lovers. But in this one we are nothing but acquaintances. We merely say hi. Or hold a conversation. Only when I’m drinking a bottle of wine do you dare to listen to my wishful thinking. We say things yet the very next day we act like nothing ever happened. You say you love my laugh yet that’s one of the things I hate about myself. I tell you I’m not confident in myself yet you dare to say I’m beautiful. And I believe because I would believe everything you ever whispered to me.

You talk about holding me in your arms and I won’t lie to you, I can feel your warmth envelop me. You say you want to touch my face but I’ve already felt your fingertips brush against my skin. When you say that you have missed me I can’t help but feel the same, it feels like I’ve been waiting millennials just to find you. I knew it once but I’m so sure of it now that I would surely die for you.

Has someone ever made you feel too many emotion’s that all you can do is burst into tears? Made you feel complete? Made you feel what another person couldn’t make you feel? That was him.

I keep writing about you, hoping one day you’ll find this page and read everything I wrote about you. Hoping that you’ll see how much I loved you. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe I’ll die always hoping. But that’s the things about poets, we always have a tragic ending.