The honesty series
Remember the moon? Remember how it continued to shine despite the darkness crowding it? Remember how we used to dream about going to the moon, drew plans on empty pages, built model rockets out of cardboard? Remember how it was just a race on who could get there first, who could touch it, mark it first? Remember as soon as we left the moon it was forgotten? Yes I remember the moon.
I know the moon, all too well.
I heard she fell in love with a sea.
I heard she missed him in the day, and drew him to her at night.
I heard that she kept revolving, desperate to catch a look at every part of him and show him every piece of her.
I also heard that his depths were so dark and far that no part of her every reached all of him.
She missed him everyday.
But you don't really want to talk about the moon or the sea.
You want to talk about you and me.
All the moon ever was to you was a carefully constructed metaphor.
Let's be honest here
Often, we spoke plainly in metaphors.
I could only use metaphors to try and demonstrate what I meant because often my thoughts got so tangled I had to use a comparison.
God I want to be poetic with you,
I want to be metaphoric because you understand.
But I cant. My poetry left when you did. So you're left with all these ugly, brutally honest words.
Go ahead and call me the damn moon. I'll pretend I don't care, but at night I'll think about them again again again. You know I will, because as you once told me "I know you hurt a lot more than you let on." Reflect on the hell that I, the damn moon, brought. But remember I never claimed to be an angel. I told you everyday of the destruction and brokenness I possessed. You simply replied "And I'd go to hell just to feel your pulse and your skin against mine. Because with all the heat of hell and all the glory of heaven I wouldn't feel the burn of love and the joy of hope without your touch and your pulse."
The hell I brought was unintentional. All I wanted was to be your own slice of heaven in the hell you inflicted on yourself. I'm sorry but you gave yourself more hell than I ever could. You tormented and raged, rubbed salt into your own wounds. You withheld love from yourself, battled your demons in quiet aloneness. I wanted to save you but I couldn't save myself. My chained hands rattled as I tried to free yours.
I am so sorry that I ever caused you pain. I wonder if now you wish my pulse would instead just stop.
Don't talk to me about hell. I'm in it every minute without you, wondering what I could've done to save you, us.
Stop writing and musing about my forgetting. It hasn't happened and it will not happen. You're a bullet too near my heart, too risky to be taken out. You're stuck there forever, an impossibly unforgettable ache.
I am not an almost.
I am a was.
I am a had.
I am a lost.
You lost me.
You are my almost.
Don't take that away.
I know the moon, all too well.
I heard she fell in love with a sea.
I heard she missed him in the day, and drew him to her at night.
I heard that she kept revolving, desperate to catch a look at every part of him and show him every piece of her.
I also heard that his depths were so dark and far that no part of her every reached all of him.
She missed him everyday.
But you don't really want to talk about the moon or the sea.
You want to talk about you and me.
All the moon ever was to you was a carefully constructed metaphor.
Let's be honest here
Often, we spoke plainly in metaphors.
I could only use metaphors to try and demonstrate what I meant because often my thoughts got so tangled I had to use a comparison.
God I want to be poetic with you,
I want to be metaphoric because you understand.
But I cant. My poetry left when you did. So you're left with all these ugly, brutally honest words.
Go ahead and call me the damn moon. I'll pretend I don't care, but at night I'll think about them again again again. You know I will, because as you once told me "I know you hurt a lot more than you let on." Reflect on the hell that I, the damn moon, brought. But remember I never claimed to be an angel. I told you everyday of the destruction and brokenness I possessed. You simply replied "And I'd go to hell just to feel your pulse and your skin against mine. Because with all the heat of hell and all the glory of heaven I wouldn't feel the burn of love and the joy of hope without your touch and your pulse."
The hell I brought was unintentional. All I wanted was to be your own slice of heaven in the hell you inflicted on yourself. I'm sorry but you gave yourself more hell than I ever could. You tormented and raged, rubbed salt into your own wounds. You withheld love from yourself, battled your demons in quiet aloneness. I wanted to save you but I couldn't save myself. My chained hands rattled as I tried to free yours.
I am so sorry that I ever caused you pain. I wonder if now you wish my pulse would instead just stop.
Don't talk to me about hell. I'm in it every minute without you, wondering what I could've done to save you, us.
Stop writing and musing about my forgetting. It hasn't happened and it will not happen. You're a bullet too near my heart, too risky to be taken out. You're stuck there forever, an impossibly unforgettable ache.
I am not an almost.
I am a was.
I am a had.
I am a lost.
You lost me.
You are my almost.
Don't take that away.
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