I thought for sure the hardest thing about losing you would be moving on from you.

That you took my heart away with you the day you left for good.

But now I realize, it had only dropped to the pit of my stomach, where it had shattered into what seemed like a million pieces when I had finally found it.

I've been slowly putting the pieces back together, my smile something I can proudly show off to anyone I please. My eyes are clearer, brighter. My chest lighter without the heavy burden of loving you weighing on my chest. I'm finally letting go.

Somehow I know that I'll never fully move on from you. The emotional ties I have to you are caught between undone and tangled up.

There's no way for me to get the tiny knot out that's been left in my hasty movements to untie us.

I'll write poems about you; stories, songs, novels based on us, on you. They'll be beautiful lies and ugly truths, something that just naturally pours out of my fingers and onto the blank page in front of me.

Like raindrops from grey clouds, the words will drip from my lips, slowly at first, gently, before I'll become overwhelmed and heavy and passionate and the words will be frantically pouring out of me before I can comprehend it having begun.

The way I remember you will be the way I write of you; broken and whole and sure and confused and alive and dead and exciting and boring and brilliant and stupid. You're a hurricane in the middle of the world for all to see and a soft breeze that not one person will feel because they're all cooped inside.

You're the thunder of a storm and you took me by surprise by saying I was your dear friend lightning and together we created a heavy rain that was so beautiful and frightening that people worried and fussed over our partnership, warning us of the consequences, which fell on deaf ears.

As all powerful storms do, we ended and thunder was no longer interested in lightning. We fell into silence and observed the damage left behind, which left me feeling heavy and suffocated, knowing I had been so blindly destructive towards myself.

In the moment, the destruction was beautifully chaotic, grossly delicious, boisterously reserved, as it always will be.

As you always will be.

The way I remember you will be the way I write of you, of myself. Because the me I am right now is not the same me I was back when we created the perfect storm, with my skin on fire and eyes hungry and secretive.

I no longer feel anything romantic towards you, and have managed to finally move on. I have finally stopped looking for happiness in the same place I had lost it.

No matter how much I let go of you, you will still always be

The Boy I Write Poems About.