Crumbs

Sometimes, a forced thought crushes upon me, and I pretend to be wanting to miss you, only to feed the vice of melancholy, but it seems I don't have it in me anymore. It's not humanly possible. You should think, but didn't you love me? And I'd respond, What could I love you for? Have you ever shown it to me? <<Where is this love? I can't see it, I can't touch it, I can't feel it. I can hear it, I can hear some words, but I can't do anything with your easy words>>

I'm fucking sorry for bringing up the same thing over and over again. Now that I have overcome the withdrawal of misery and the hunger of crumbs, finally, I'm able to remember your blasé face, your elusive eyes, your jaded mouth, and your distant body lying next to me. Out there, it's so cold for lonely people, you know? If one is afraid of opening up, it doesn't matter how many of them surround you, it‘ll always feel empty. And even though your feelings were never real, I put enough effort to make up for that, didn't I?

I used to dream someday I’d be free to trust you, despite your inability to say “I love you” at the right time. It's the easiest lie; you don't have to formulate a complex sentence, you were supposed to reply. Instead, you always run. You’re used to running. But also returning and saying, “I want to be with you, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t love you, would I?"

Yes, you would. Yes, you did. Yes, you knew. You knew you were hurting me. You knew you tore me apart into pieces every time, and never owned up to the harm. So, you called me a poet and we got too comfortable in the roles where I’m the writer and you’re the person I write of. There are plenty of my scripts where I can twist reality for you to stay, I said. You did really think I’d never leave. I truly believed it’d never end. It seemed like we were cursed with a sick cycle until our last days.

One night, one blessed night, we skipped the scene and broke our hearts for the last time. It feels almost like a story I heard. It was 3 days of hell, but in the end, we gave up. I had to learn the hard way that missing is not to love, to love is not only missing, but, for our convenience, we switched it up. That's all I got to say. I don't know who you are, but this was who you were. There's no poetry in it. There's been enough time to cry for. Nothing else to write about. Now, we are free to be hollow in our own respective sides.