I Love You; More When It’s Over
One who cries in the desert can weep for an eternity.
Apologies for your suffering due to my brokenness.
I acknowledge these words as worthless painted pennies, but we came into one another blinded by infatuation, guided by misconceptions of love. Babies, society would label us. **
**Unknowing of the true meaning of the word.
My moments of vulnerability existed as projections on a white screen in a room full of natural light,
and I despised your inability to see clearly.
I bought you an 18-karat gold, jade-studded earring in Paris—a gesture far too late. It rests in a military chest alongside the pride I extracted from myself and love letters about a dying sunflower. Letters written as if the last words I’d ever scribble, as if the first words of truth you’d translate from me. A relationship built with studs of half truths. I loved you so much more when it was over—the comfortability of possessing your loyalty made decision-making easier—for better and worse.
Believing that you’d wait for my spirit to mature, I continued to live to the monologue of my emotions, grief, and pain. I found myself in a fallacious state establishing a life prepared for the inevitable, which ironically kept us in stillwater. The pain of subconscious awareness drove me mad—”That was not me”, is what I used to say. I hope you recognize my accountability.
To what end?
A foundation made of stained glass.
Promises filled with helium.
Apologies for your suffering due to my brokenness.
I acknowledge these words as worthless painted pennies, but we came into one another blinded by infatuation, guided by misconceptions of love. Babies, society would label us. **
**Unknowing of the true meaning of the word.
My moments of vulnerability existed as projections on a white screen in a room full of natural light,
and I despised your inability to see clearly.
I bought you an 18-karat gold, jade-studded earring in Paris—a gesture far too late. It rests in a military chest alongside the pride I extracted from myself and love letters about a dying sunflower. Letters written as if the last words I’d ever scribble, as if the first words of truth you’d translate from me. A relationship built with studs of half truths. I loved you so much more when it was over—the comfortability of possessing your loyalty made decision-making easier—for better and worse.
Believing that you’d wait for my spirit to mature, I continued to live to the monologue of my emotions, grief, and pain. I found myself in a fallacious state establishing a life prepared for the inevitable, which ironically kept us in stillwater. The pain of subconscious awareness drove me mad—”That was not me”, is what I used to say. I hope you recognize my accountability.
To what end?
A foundation made of stained glass.
Promises filled with helium.