“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.”-Aldous huxley
"L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux"
You trick yourself into thinking your balcony is where you want to be.
You think you want that cigarette. You think you want to read. You think you want to write. Maybe the sun will do wonders for your complexion. But you hate your balcony. You simply remember those conversations about life, religion, exs, what it is to be aware. You sit on your balcony because maybe one of these days he'll show back up. You face the busy side street hoping to catch a glimpse of his red Ford, the one he always drives the speed limit, the one he doesn't have full coverage insurance for, the one with cigarette burns in the backseat. Maybe he'll say, "Come with me," and you'll pretend to hate him. You want to hate him. Everyone around you says things like, "he's a jerk," or "what a dick," or "you're better off without him." But you know you aren't. These words hurt you more than help. You want to believe in him, that he'll come back, that you didn't make a mistake, and that everything will be ok. You trick yourself into thinking your balcony is where you want to be. But it's not. Not really. You want to be with him, and the closest thing are the memories. But you never had a chance. Not really. He can't love you because he still loves her.
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I hate that after you leave I can still smell you. Your scent is in my hair, on my neck, it covers my pillow. I relive the moments that just passed, and the happy feeling in my chest starts to curdle. I begin to feel sick to my stomach with the thoughts circling through my mind, down my throat, and to the pit of my abdomen. I feel the burn on my cheek from the scruff of yours, from us being so close. An act that is so intimate shared between two people who feel nothing, who are incapable of feeling. I stand silently where you left me in my baggy t-shirt and underwear, clinging to the idea that there may be some good in you, that there is still hope for you, but slowly that belief disintegrates along with your scent, drifting out with your shell, your empty vessel that resembles a person. I watch your tail lights as you drive away, hoping that at some point you decide to turn around and come back to my room, to me, to that pillow that reeks of you. But you don't. You disappear into traffic as I send the one sarcastic text, "Happy Valentine's Day, see you next week."
Disclaimer: I wrote this about 2 years ago, and found it recently in a keepsake box. I just wanted to throw it up here to see how my writing has grown. Thanks for reading! :) It's the days just after that hurt the most.
When there is that glimmer of hope. Maybe he'll show up with flowers say "I'm sorry, can we forget this ever happened?" And you say "Of course" because there is nothing you want more than to wake up next to him again. Every red vehicle, every song, every cigarette, makes you think of him or that time you sat in the parking lot for hours sharing music and embarrassing stories. But in reality, you're feeling these things and he's not. You left his head the second you got out of his car that day. Even after pleading in your head, "please stay." And then you're just stuck writing shitty poetry and stream of consciousness trash on your blog he doesn't read anymore. Unexpected,
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