You were a god in my eyes. You were a god. I always saw you in the best light, the kind that falls gently on your shoulder and rests there like a lonely hand looking to be loved.
You were somehow perfect. Those blue eyes watching everything, yet only now do I realize, seeing very little. Your cold hands. Your buried secrets. Your wild heart some how asking, without permission, to be loved by me.
I wanted you so much. I ached for some kind of infinity with you, but that was never meant to be in your mind. So, slowly it vanished from mine.
I was too young to understand. I was too young. My heart was just beginning when I met you and all I see is that brave, foolish heart marching at you in the dark unknown begging to be loved. Bravery really is a kinder version of stupidity, isn't it?
Don't cry. It's okay. My heart is no longer afraid. It was once so very pale and white and silent, after too long of loving you; quivering by an endless cold that did not really exist. It was once a tired animal, small and fragile, stroked by the chilling darkness of loneliness that fed upon disillusions and soft fantasies of us. Us.
Though it's quieter now, and it doesn't seem to dance the same reckless way it did before. Now it listens. It learns. It knows its worth lies somewhere far, far away from those who simply hurt it.
I see your pale ghosts like immortalized statues and they used to make me weep at how beautiful and tragic they were. I thought I could fix these broken demons, trace my gentle hands across their shattered faces and patch them up again. But I can't. I never could. They were never broken. I was. I didn't see it, but the glass between us was broken and I thought it was merely you and your demons. But it's not. It never was.
I'm not blaming you. I'm not. Actually, I'm not really doing anything except writing silly words and thinking about you when I'm not certain I should.
I guess the fire is coming now and instead of running to a burning ocean to die faster, I just wait for the flames to come, watching, until I too become a frozen statue next to you, my charcoal hand almost reaching yours. Almost.
What a sad tragedy we are. And to think every love can be a great one if you only care about the other one while still respecting yourself. That's it. That's what we could've been rather than this tragic ending of fire and flame.
We are not heroes or martyrs. We are stupid lovers that never even loved each other. What a cosmic waste we are. Utterly pathetic.
-k.p.
January 23, 2017
Monday
You were somehow perfect. Those blue eyes watching everything, yet only now do I realize, seeing very little. Your cold hands. Your buried secrets. Your wild heart some how asking, without permission, to be loved by me.
I wanted you so much. I ached for some kind of infinity with you, but that was never meant to be in your mind. So, slowly it vanished from mine.
I was too young to understand. I was too young. My heart was just beginning when I met you and all I see is that brave, foolish heart marching at you in the dark unknown begging to be loved. Bravery really is a kinder version of stupidity, isn't it?
Don't cry. It's okay. My heart is no longer afraid. It was once so very pale and white and silent, after too long of loving you; quivering by an endless cold that did not really exist. It was once a tired animal, small and fragile, stroked by the chilling darkness of loneliness that fed upon disillusions and soft fantasies of us. Us.
Though it's quieter now, and it doesn't seem to dance the same reckless way it did before. Now it listens. It learns. It knows its worth lies somewhere far, far away from those who simply hurt it.
I see your pale ghosts like immortalized statues and they used to make me weep at how beautiful and tragic they were. I thought I could fix these broken demons, trace my gentle hands across their shattered faces and patch them up again. But I can't. I never could. They were never broken. I was. I didn't see it, but the glass between us was broken and I thought it was merely you and your demons. But it's not. It never was.
I'm not blaming you. I'm not. Actually, I'm not really doing anything except writing silly words and thinking about you when I'm not certain I should.
I guess the fire is coming now and instead of running to a burning ocean to die faster, I just wait for the flames to come, watching, until I too become a frozen statue next to you, my charcoal hand almost reaching yours. Almost.
What a sad tragedy we are. And to think every love can be a great one if you only care about the other one while still respecting yourself. That's it. That's what we could've been rather than this tragic ending of fire and flame.
We are not heroes or martyrs. We are stupid lovers that never even loved each other. What a cosmic waste we are. Utterly pathetic.
-k.p.
January 23, 2017
Monday
