I thought that maybe, all the flooded paper with knotted words would bring justice to the feeling of what it was like loving you from afar.
I couldn't tell you that some nights I wanted to hold the hands of a ghost I had never touched, never held on Sunday nights where somber music filled the air.
I couldn't tell you that I wrote about you, day after day after day, simply because when you were playing your instrument, 1000 "what if's" took over my thoughts.
I couldn't tell you that I wanted to blast music on the streets we both hadn't gone down, and make memories up of stupid sentences said after midnight.
I couldn't tell you because telling you would've made you disappear.
I couldn't tell you because you loved another and I wasn't even a character in your book.
But nothing has changed, I simply think and ignore in hopes that my brain would forget you but goddamnit if I could splatter you over canvases and show you off in museums I'd finally fill the world with the missing art piece it deserves.
Why you? Why you... After all these people?
Why? Why so strong? So uncontrollable?
Why do I love you?
Why do I like loving you?
You're pretty and I'm having a panic attack.
#yk
CZYTASZ
Roses In The Sun
PoezjaA book dedicated to the thoughts that lie beneath the surface of all that I am, all that I will be, and all that I hope to become. A book dedicated to the outcasts, to those who've felt invisible, to those who want to read and fall in love with the...
