Mistakes were made by my younger self—terrible mistakes, the regret of which echoes in the emptiness of my present days. Yet you, too, have not spared me gentleness. Despite your cold turns, harsh words, and violent doings, I find it impossible to unlove you. And that, my friend, is love: helpless, flawed, hopeful, and disappointing.
They say I cannot move on, that my love for you outshines every ember of my anger or dare I say hatred. Nonetheless, I realize the truth of it, each moment that I live. The gravity of my affection still holds me captive, binding me in chains sweeter than your bitterness ever could.
I can’t pen my thoughts anymore—they slip through my fingers like sand grains you try to grasp desperately. For what else in this whole wide world demands a line, a verse, a sigh, a thought, a breath besides the space between your furrowed eyebrows? Your subtle blush at the corner of your lips? Your struggles through a sentence? Everything that held my breath. That fragile thought is my muse. What other sight matters enough to warrant words? What other feeling begs to be felt?
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