Soulmate

“i smile but i don’t look at her while she informs me of the latest date her and her boyfriend went on. “that’s nice.” i whisper. “that’s nice.” i say more to myself. “i really want you to meet him.” my blood boils. she really wants me to meet him. the man that get’s to touch her in the places that used to be mine. the man who doesn’t understand that he gets to wake up to the sight of a million stars everyday. “that’s okay, i don’t need too.” my lips tremble and i start to fiddle with my fingers. “what’s wrong? is it something i said?” she says blindly, then reaches out to grab my shaky hands. “no.” she could throw a thousand insults at me and i’d still remain calm. she could spit on my grave and my soul would still be at peace. but the thought of her with somebody else is one that cause volcanoes to erupt in the pit of my stomach, fires to start within the balls of my fists and tsunami’s to form in the back of my eyes. “i’d love to.” we all know i wouldn’t. but that’s the closest i’ll ever be to saying ‘i love you’ to her, so i squeeze her hand in mine and let it go, picking up my phone to divert the attention from me. i miss her. i want her. but god, i need her.”

“When I look at her, I smile. I smile because she’s a poetic beauty — she’s my favourite poem. I read her everyday, the way she fiddles with her bottom lip, that’s my favourite line. It reminds me of another poem of hers, the one where she catches me watching her subconsciously fiddle with her lip and blushes slightly; dropping her hands into her lap. I love that poem. My favourite stanza is the third one, where she touches me gently, innocuously and generously but somehow it hurts. It hurts my heart, I wish my heart was her favourite poem, then it wouldn’t hurt so much. See, she hurts me; but she’s still my favourite poem. The line that broke me when I first read it was: “I think I like him.” Since then, I haven’t been reading my favourite poem — I can’t.”

“i close my eyes and all i see is her, i want her close. i want to go on walks with her while our hands intertwine; just like our souls. sometimes i imagine how it would feel on a roof at 3am holding hands with her; god, she’s ineffable. i imagine the kind of stars she would point out. i wonder what kind of sky she would see? a brighter one? maybe. she’s the kind of girl you can’t help staring at, you can’t help wanting to touch her not like that, not always. i mean trace her jawbone, rub my thumb over her bottom lip or kiss her temple while squeezing her waist. she’s fragile, just like a flower. (just like my heart)”

“it excites me wanting to write about her i mean when my pen hits the paper or my fingers tap the letters its like my love pours into them my love for her possesses my fingers and i can’t stop it just like my love for her she reminds me of the sun sometimes she’s too bright to look at sometimes it hurts looking at her but it’s always worth it i’d always look again the pain doesn’t matter maybe she’s from a past life or maybe she’s an alien i can’t say i’d be surprised she has a beauty about her that i just can’t describe i want her to hold me but i’m too scared i’ll turn into nothing someone that powerful and beautiful just like the sun isn’t made to love me back”

my love for her was vigorous enough to cause a fire inside my heart. But it wasn’t enough to make her stay.

“i lie awake alone. missing the sound of her breathing, reminding me she’s alive and here to stay. i wish i could reach out and run my finger down her back and plant a kiss on her shoulder. but instead i wipe the rebel tear that escaped and kiss the remnant on my finger.”

“When I look at her, I smile. I smile because she’s a poetic beauty — she’s my favourite poem. I read her everyday, the way she fiddles with her bottom lip, that’s my favourite line. It reminds me of another poem of hers, the one where she catches me watching her subconsciously fiddle with her lip and blushes slightly; dropping her hands into her lap. I love that poem. My favourite stanza is the third one, where she touches me gently, innocuously and generously but somehow it hurts. It hurts my heart, I wish my heart was her favourite poem, then it wouldn’t hurt so much. See, she hurts me; but she’s still my favourite poem. The line that broke me when I first read it was: “I think I like him.” Since then, I haven’t been reading my favourite poem — I can’t.”

“i had been living in love with a girl that made my name sound like it was cotton candy melting in her mouth for one year and three months before we decided the world deserved us. i stared at myself in the mirror for a week straight interrogating myself on what was the truth 
questioned if the world wasn’t ready, when would it be? she reminded me how the curve of her calf would lead me straight to our truth, we’d make them ready. 
i kissed mixtapes from our first months, and hummed about cherry wine the entire time we held hands through town.”