Right Person, Wrong Universe.

The end of whiskey bottles are supposed to make me forget you, not remember you twice as hard.

saving 18.

It’s the year 2030, 23:55pm October 17th. I’m 25 as sit by the window in my studio apartment that is hidden away by the blinding lights and skyscraper buildings in New York City. The sky is dark, the stars are visible, and the moon is a perfect crescent shape. My window glass in covered in small raindrops and for once, the loudest city has become nothing more than a hum.

The washing machine is running and the flowers I bought from Lucies flower shop two days ago have died.

The hot chocolate I made is resting just near my foot, the microwave broke a week ago, so I had no choice but to use boiling kettle water.

Delilah my tabby cat who I self-adopted on 8th street two years ago when I first moved to the city sits right in front of me. Admiring the city, I grew up loving so much.

The clock, which seems to be the only working thing in this apartment, hangs low not in the centre and too far to the left side, on the wall near my front door now reads 23:58pm.

A sigh leaves my lips. 120 seconds and you’re turning 24 somewhere.

Slowly I remove myself from the windowsill and tiptoe over to the kitchen, floorboards creaking under my steps. Opening the fridge to the cupcakes I bought three days ago in Mary’s bakery just right of Cornelia Street, I set them down on the kitchen counter. Admiring the chocolate goodness that sits before. The ones I’ve stopped myself from messaging and telling you about. You always loved my chocolate cupcakes when I made them, would you believe me if I told you I found ones better? Opening the draw, I pull out a pack of candles, the perfect shade of light ocean blue. Just like your eyes. Picking up the lighter also alongside of them. It’s been eight years, and still, I love you no less.

Placing the candle, on top of one of the cupcakes, I light it. The clock now reads 23:59pm. One minute my love, I whisper to myself.

00:00am. Taking the cupcake in my hand I tiptoe back over to the windowsill.

“Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re in love with. I hope you’re happy and I hope you’re safe. Happy 24th birthday.”

Blowing out the candle with a shaky breath, I felt a tear prickle and slide down my face.

July.

July unfolds herself in a mess of aching limbs and a stretched-out heart. Swollen. A dream-haze. How slowly the summer months drift by; blush coloured clouds, coral lights, the world dusted in rose pink and a breathless awaiting. An awakening kiss. It seems that these days are a litte forsaken. The prince never comes/the angles stop believing in us. We breathe a sigh of relief. The sky relaxes her muscles and the birds fly home.

I’m so desperate for you it’s embarrassing. How did this happen? How did we go from promising each other the world to hardly talking at all? When did all the laughing turn into shouting. I love you and it’s killing me. I love you and it’s hurting. I love you and I don’t know what to do with myself. I love you and it’s torcher. Do you miss me? are you ever thinking about me? Wondering if I’m okay. Or if I up screaming and crying. I’m still sleeping in your jumper. It’s like having a ghost that you can touch. I close my eyes and you’re here and I feel your skin, your kisses, your hugs. I close my eyes and I relive the whole moment. From very first day I knew of your existence, to the day we first met, and how you greeted me. So tall, so confident. The first time I heard your voice in person I almost crumbled. Please come back, just come back, come back, and come back. I’ll say I’m sorry and you can say it back and we’ll forget the whole thing and start again. Promise me you won’t forget this? You won’t forget when I was me, and you was you, and this was us. I love you and it’s killing me. I love you and it’s torcher. I love you and it’s hurting. I love you and I don’t know what to do with myself.

On June 24th at 16:53, you messaged me for the very time saying “heyo” and we made some jokes. A couple days later we somehow ended up sharing the music room together at school.

You played the guitar and I glazed my fingers over the keyboard, too nervous to play, too scared to fail you. Music moves so smooth when you play it.

We spoke all the time after that, until we didn’t anymore and you went away.

I remember the way you sang that night at your house, how you told me I was beautiful after you saw me in a way no human ever had before. How it felt believable coming out of your mouth.

It was a different kind of love this time around, you made me feel… different. I don’t know where you are now, or who you’re in love with but I hope you’re happy. And I hope that in some way, you think of me the way I think of you.

lemon boy...

“WITH YOUR HELP, WE CAN WORK TOGETHER AND PUT AN END TO CHILD TRAFFICKING. T H I N K A B O U T IT. An end to child trafficking means…. 40,000,000 less children being abused each year 150,000,000 less girls & 73,000,000 less boys experiencing sexual violence 1,800,000 less children being involved in prostitution and pornography 1,200,000 less children that will become victims of trafficking”

—

healing….

When the world turns quite and the sun fades away and there are no distractions to spare my heart the thought of you, and the only thing to be heard is the whistle of the wind or rain as it gently patters against my windows, it’s easier. I understand now why you left and I’m slowly accepting the fact that you won’t be coming back. I don’t choke or lose my breath to the idea of you with different women, but rather happy. Happy that you’re happy. stay safe out there buddy, I’m rooting for you always. 

for all the girls that were given price charming, but fell in love with the villain.

it takes a certain kinda soul to see the beauty in someone’s darkness. Perhaps the truest kinda love is loving the darkest most ugliest parts of someone, and understanding that you might not be able to change them, but you’ll love them anyway.

the more I grow older, the more I realise, poets are liars. missing someone is not a romanticise ghost that haunts the corner of my room. It’s not remembering the smell with the flashes of good memories resurfacing . it’s hearing someone that sounds like them and your throat catching and then suddenly you’re unable to speak. It’s smelling what they used to smell like, and an uneasy amount of home sick rises up to your stomach and all of a sudden it pours out. It’s going to bed with a drowned pillow because the moment you close your eyes, they’re there. Picture perfect, as clears as day. the way they felt burns your body from the inside out. failing in love with someone is like the loving the devil, you’re lucky if you’re anything but a pawn in his silly little game.