your glorious indifference

where does old love go to when it dies?

i. the first time you pour the whirlwind of your chest into the rough palms of someone, you're still sick and he is the first one who understands this. he is the first one to see the shipwreck there is somewhere inside of you and he is the first one who does not run away at the sight of cracked bones and bruised knuckles. he is the first one who stays.

ii. no one ever told you that healing was an exhausting, ugly, raw and necessary process, yet he holds your hands through the nightmares you have in where entire cities fall into the ocean. he understands that every breath you take is a challenge and he is patient when he tries to teach you the tiny bits – how to be kind to your body, how to eat when you're hungry and how to gather the strength left in your bones to get out of bed in the morning. you have never seen anyone so desperate to keep you alive.

iii. he's all your prayers on every sunday morning and you love him with every fucking nerve in your body – even on the moments you hate yourself. he holds you like he cannot believe that he is worthy of touching something so goddamn sacred and you're finally not scared of admitting to him (and to yourself) that your wounds are still open, that the cracks in your skin are still mending. you're finally not scared of admitting that you're still healing.

iv. you're convinced that life can be somewhat pretty because he takes you to every beautiful place he can think of and shows you things that seem too dazzling to even be looked at. it's him, it's him, it's always him and suddenly, there are always lilacs and daisies in the kitchen table, the house smells like coffee and cinnamon and washing your hair isn't such a chore anymore. somewhere in between the messy bed, the perfect leather couch, and the late night movie sessions, you find yourself in a secluded universe where everything is better. where everything is so much better than it has been in a long time.

v. you love him, you love him, you love him. my god, you love him.

vi. you're neck deep in their palms and that's okay because your friends say you look great together and your mother loves him. for a while, you let your past settle on the shelf, but there are still days in where he comes home to find you shaking in the bathroom floor. he spends nights awake just to make sure you're okay and says he would lose sleep over you anytime. he holds you at night until you learn how to tuck your demons to sleep.

vii. it's him, it's him and it's always him. he calls you every now and then throughout your day to make sure you're alright and he makes you forget your childhood trauma, the incessant trembling of your fingers and the recurring nightmare you've had since you were seven. your best friend tells you that you have been losing yourself amongst the commodity of a modern life entirely planned out and that you never call her anymore, along with the fact that you forget to water the house plants in your windowsill. you just let out a dry chuckle and shake your head because you know it's not true. she says that loving someone shouldn't mean unbecoming yourself.

viii. you change your medication/ he changes his work shift/ and you're always so exhausted of your unproductivity/ of only doing things that end up in mundane poetry./ he comes home always so tired/ and forgets to kiss you on the lips./ you cry/ because you cannot find the strength in your bones/ to put yourself back together./ the meds are no longer helping/ you're always so sad/ he's always too busy to notice/ because lately, work has been so stressful./ you cry on the bathroom floor once again/ he doesn't come to save you./

ix. he sees you crying in the kitchen but neither of you bring it up because the both of you are trying to be stronger than you really are. you find yourselves sharing 30 seconds of small talk before rushing to complete your daily tasks. you feel the tears threatening to burn holes in your cheeks, but no, you promised yourself that you wouldn't cry. but you do. and he does. you try to keep busy, try to keep moving and you two start living on a routine made of pretend excuses and pretend apologies.

x. he comes home later by every passing week and he doesn't notice your new haircut the same way he used to. there are no longer flowers on the kitchen table. he forgets to offer help with the dishes and you two haven't talked in forever. you pour your coffee from the mug into the sink and ask yourself how did the both of you spiral down the same way.

xi. and you're angry. and you drink your sorrows away and you curse in every language you know. where did it all go? where did all the love go? your words are a lot more bite than bark now and you want to scream something like, my god, we made a mess of it. my god, my god. how did all of this happen?

xii. the both of you are trying your hardest not to go up in flames. the both of you fall onto your knees and ask god or any force higher than human nature where did you go wrong. you both loved each other and you both created a tragedy out of it. did the butterflies in your stomach die? did the flowers that bloomed in your lungs wilt? there's no way how to turn this – any of this – into poetry.

xiii. you were never taught about the inevitability of change. about the way love shifts, until you're no longer sure of how to hold it correctly, until you're no longer sure of what to do with your hands. until you're no longer sure of how to pick the glass shards from each other's souls. you were never taught that some people come into your life to teach you lessons and that no matter how hard you try, you aren't able of getting them out from the soft spaces between your ribs; you aren't able of washing them out of your mouth no matter how hard you try to eradicate their taste with bleach.

xiv. you don't know if you'll feel more at ease cursing your old love rather than admitting that you will always take him with you like knives between your teeth. you blame yourself for the wounds and bruises because it's easier than acknowledging that maybe it wasn't meant to be.

xv. the thing about old love is that no one ever tells you where it goes. how to pull it out of your bones like picking weeds. how to lay it down and let it be at leisure. so you carry it – inside, outside, in your throat, fingertips, shoulders, chest and in every crevice of what you are.