You build this sort of detachment from everything and you never let yourself get too close in fear of not being able to make the break when necessary. You keep your heart guarded because you don’t think you can handle feeling that broken ever again. You build up walls and you keep the people out that you need most because you hate feeling vulnerable. You hate showing that you’re human, that you’re fragile. You throw yourself into songs and the words of fiction and poetry and you immerse yourself in those feelings and memories even though you know that you should be learning to let go and move on. But then, for just the smallest of minutes you wonder ‘What if’. What if you could go back? What if you could just let yourself fall back into step of those old familiar songs that once kept your heart so warm? What if you could forgive the past and push it aside and try and make new things with old souls. What if you gave her once chance, it could be the greatest thing. What if you could feel whole again? You wear yourself out with what if’s until you can’t even think straight and your eyes are clouded with tears of last years faults and errors and you don’t even know what to do anymore. You know that those things aren’t good for you and that you need to keep those parts of your heart closed off because they’ll never be the same, but you can’t help but wonder and it twists your mind in circles and you’re exhausted. You’re exhausted from crying, you’re exhausted from thinking and speaking and yelling and hurting. You’re at the breaking point and all you want to do is be able to breathe again. You’re up countless nights over analysing actions that shouldn’t even matter anymore. You grab onto new things even though you know your heart hasn’t recovered from the old ones and at this point you feel as if they never will. You tell yourself its okay and that you have the will to move on, but really, all you want is to feel alive again.


I have so much to tell you, the problem isn’t that I’m running out of time, I’m running out of room, this book is filling up, there couldn’t be enough pages, I looked around the apartment this morning for one last time and there was writing everywhere, filling the walls and mirrors, I rolled up the rugs so I could write on the floors, I’d written on the windows and around the bottles of wine we were given but never drank, I only wore short sleeves, even in the winter time, sweetheart, I’ve written for much too long, but I’ll never be able to bring myself to a halt, forgive me.

I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you. I knew this was going to happen. So I’m not blaming you for falling in love with another woman. I’m not angry, either. I should be, but I’m not. I just feel pain. A lot of pain. I thought I could imagine how much this would hurt, but I was wrong.


I listened to your texts, your singing, your hopes, your desires, your music. You listened to mine. My Italian, my Spanish, a bit of French. I gave you a walkman. You gave me a pillow. And one day, you kissed me. Time went by, time flew and everything seemed so easy, so simple, so free, so new, so unique. We went to the movies, we went dancing, we went shopping, we laughed, I cried, we swam, we smoked, we laid, sometimes for no reason, or for a reason. Yes, sometimes for a reason. I brought you in, to my home, you taught me how to love what I had once hated. I listened to your singing, to your hopes, your desires, your music. You listened to mine. We were close, so close, ever so close. We went to the movies, we swam, we laughed. You screamed, sometimes for a reason and sometimes without. Time went by,
Time keeps going by.

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