the second time around...
i don't know if you do know
or if you don't know
and if you want to know
just ask... either of us
it's seems my best writing comes from you
so lets take a look at how things change
from now and then
if there's anything left, or not
in between these things
and them...
Some people say you don’t die of a broken heart, you only wish you did. And if you love someone, you’ll let them go. Well what if letting go breaks your heart? Then all you need do is stop the wishing. Being in love at fifteen is hard. Though no more so, nor any less than love at fifty or ninety-two. Some people go through life looking for love, and some people find love early. Some people go searching for love and others it falls in their lap. Grab hold tight or watch it fly by. Love hurts and love makes everything better. For a while, at least, in both cases though.
Some people say you don’t die of a broken heart, you only wish you did. And if you love someone, you’ll let them go. Well. I’ve let go, or I’m trying, but a broken heart is a pain far worse than death. It mends slowly and is quick to bleed and broken hearts are quick to freeze.
I’ve let go, but I feel empty. I am full of halves. And love let free flew on paper wings and left me bloody. My heart, my hands. Though it was love let free I still grasped to keep it close and paper wings caused wounds. My hands made bloody.
My soul is full of jagged edges that scratch the insides of me. One false move and they prick tears from me. Broken shards pierce the flesh of my heart and I am bleeding. And though I bleed, its drops are frozen. I am cold. It emanates from me and I am numb. But apparently, it’s not my fault.
Some people say that you don’t die of a broken heart, you only wish you did. And if you love someone, you’ll let them go. Well, I’m in love, and my heart is broken. And in this fate far worse than death I am wondering and I am lost. I don’t know where to turn and the ground crumbles beneath my feet. I am unstable, my foundation’s gone.
Perhaps then I’m not dieing, but I wish I were. I feel as if I am. Perhaps, eventually, my heart will stop bleeding and stop emanating cold. And I may trust again, or at least see them. Being in love is hard. But I’m not dead and I’m trying to let go.
and here's what happened the second time around...
Robert Bly wrote a poem about the third person that’s created when you’re in a relationship. Whether with a stranger, a lover, a family member, in the space between you is created, and there exists, another being. The other day I found out, this being of our creating, he had died. And I was unaware that he wasn’t even feeling well.
So, he is dead. But I want to pound on his chest until the ribs crack and pierce the lungs that I try so desperately to fill with air. And crush the heart that lies shattered underneath. I want to keep humping until it’s really dead. So I can say I tried everything. Because I’m afraid that if I don’t, his ghost will continue to haunt me everywhere I go. And I will see you in it.
It’d be so much easier to let my chest collapse, my shoulders round, make time stop, and become a young parallel to Dickens’s Miss Havisham.
I stupidly, mistakenly, mistook three hundred seventy miles of poison for mearly three hundred seventy miles of road. I keep looking at my phone out of habit, out of hope. For maybe an I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, are you okay? But that’s silly of me.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know! And I don’t understand, how can you make love to someone, when you’re not in love with them. My eyes sting, my stomach burns, my heart aches, from so many tears, lack of food, lack of you. And stupidly, naively, I just don’t understand. Incomprehensible. How do you let something so perfect, die?
What the fuck is it, with you and Octobers?
or if you don't know
and if you want to know
just ask... either of us
it's seems my best writing comes from you
so lets take a look at how things change
from now and then
if there's anything left, or not
in between these things
and them...
Some people say you don’t die of a broken heart, you only wish you did. And if you love someone, you’ll let them go. Well what if letting go breaks your heart? Then all you need do is stop the wishing. Being in love at fifteen is hard. Though no more so, nor any less than love at fifty or ninety-two. Some people go through life looking for love, and some people find love early. Some people go searching for love and others it falls in their lap. Grab hold tight or watch it fly by. Love hurts and love makes everything better. For a while, at least, in both cases though.
Some people say you don’t die of a broken heart, you only wish you did. And if you love someone, you’ll let them go. Well. I’ve let go, or I’m trying, but a broken heart is a pain far worse than death. It mends slowly and is quick to bleed and broken hearts are quick to freeze.
I’ve let go, but I feel empty. I am full of halves. And love let free flew on paper wings and left me bloody. My heart, my hands. Though it was love let free I still grasped to keep it close and paper wings caused wounds. My hands made bloody.
My soul is full of jagged edges that scratch the insides of me. One false move and they prick tears from me. Broken shards pierce the flesh of my heart and I am bleeding. And though I bleed, its drops are frozen. I am cold. It emanates from me and I am numb. But apparently, it’s not my fault.
Some people say that you don’t die of a broken heart, you only wish you did. And if you love someone, you’ll let them go. Well, I’m in love, and my heart is broken. And in this fate far worse than death I am wondering and I am lost. I don’t know where to turn and the ground crumbles beneath my feet. I am unstable, my foundation’s gone.
Perhaps then I’m not dieing, but I wish I were. I feel as if I am. Perhaps, eventually, my heart will stop bleeding and stop emanating cold. And I may trust again, or at least see them. Being in love is hard. But I’m not dead and I’m trying to let go.
and here's what happened the second time around...
Robert Bly wrote a poem about the third person that’s created when you’re in a relationship. Whether with a stranger, a lover, a family member, in the space between you is created, and there exists, another being. The other day I found out, this being of our creating, he had died. And I was unaware that he wasn’t even feeling well.
So, he is dead. But I want to pound on his chest until the ribs crack and pierce the lungs that I try so desperately to fill with air. And crush the heart that lies shattered underneath. I want to keep humping until it’s really dead. So I can say I tried everything. Because I’m afraid that if I don’t, his ghost will continue to haunt me everywhere I go. And I will see you in it.
It’d be so much easier to let my chest collapse, my shoulders round, make time stop, and become a young parallel to Dickens’s Miss Havisham.
I stupidly, mistakenly, mistook three hundred seventy miles of poison for mearly three hundred seventy miles of road. I keep looking at my phone out of habit, out of hope. For maybe an I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, are you okay? But that’s silly of me.
I didn’t know. I didn’t know! And I don’t understand, how can you make love to someone, when you’re not in love with them. My eyes sting, my stomach burns, my heart aches, from so many tears, lack of food, lack of you. And stupidly, naively, I just don’t understand. Incomprehensible. How do you let something so perfect, die?
What the fuck is it, with you and Octobers?