A year ago,
I used to be scared of being alone.
I had a habit of sitting next to strangers
on the bus
despite there being empty seats,
wrote my number on restaurant tables.
I sent drunk texts to my ex-lovers
hoping one of them would miss me too.
It will take you months, I learned,
before solitude grows on you.
Often, you will have to leave
before you are ready.
But it is worth waiting for.
One day, you will be able to say,
‘This poem is not for you
and I am not sad.’
And it has been
of a year.
I have worn
under my sleeves,
on my thighs,
running down my cheeks.
This is what
looks like, my dear.
Come quickly, I am drinking the stars!
“Moving on isn’t about not loving someone anymore and forgetting them. It’s about having the strength to say “I still love you, but you’re not worth this pain.”
The hardest thing about losing you is that it didn’t just happen once. I lose you every single day that we don’t speak. When I wake up in the morning and reach for my phone and hope to see a message that isn’t there, and when I go to sleep at night after I realise that the only person I want to moan to about how crap my day was, isn’t there. And I lose you in all of the moments in between, in all the hours of silence that go by where I do nothing but think of you, go to call you, and then I don’t. I lose you when I watch certain films, listen to certain songs, and go to certain places that are all tainted with certain parts of you and how you make me feel. And I used to think I could only miss you when I was alone, but that’s not true. I miss you when I’m around everyone else, too. Because they are not you. But you’re always there…somewhere. I can’t not think about you. It’s only when I’m asleep that I get a break from it. From thinking and wanting and missing. But, then I wake up the following day, roll over, check my phone, see that you didn’t call and I just know I’m going to feel it all over again.
I think she was afraid to love sometimes. I think it scared her. She was the type to like things that were concrete, like the ocean. Something you could point to and know what it was. I think that’s why she struggled with love. She couldn’t touch it. She couldn’t hold on to it and make sure it never changed.