Tag Archives: in love

Old friend

The feelings I have now are not new to me. They are not new to me in the sense that I have before experience  . . . loving someone who doesn’t love me. The pain is nothing new, the hope as futile as I know it is, is nothing new . . .
The heart ache is an old friend, but for some reason this time I cannot shake it off. I cannot shake him off. As always this once, only this once I wish  . . . I wish  . . . to be free of pain. And in the end beloved by the one I love.

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As I sit here

As I sit here I think of nothing else. Nothing else at all but the one, one and only  – or is it lonely? – thought. The thought, the thought, the thought like a plague that starts small and takes you to the grave. The grave of my soul, the grave of my heart, the grave of my life to end it all. End it all at once, but not my life, but not my soul, but not my heart, but that one lonely, only plague-like thought.

The thought of thoughts, the only one. But multiplying until there is none. None other, no others, not many and not few. An image and smile and then all it’s done. Done forever, done for never, done and done and done again. A cycle that never ends. A cycle, a cycle, a bicycle that goes and goes and never gets there.

A never ending story, a never ending cycle of cycles as it repeats and repeats but is never the same and always . . . always the end. The same end, a different story but along came a spider, a story? A cycle? Again and again I go. First, I was blind, then I was naive, and now with my eyes wide open and my heart cracked and broken. For what else can one thought do if it has already taken my heart and my soul? It has taken all, has taken me and myself and my oxidized heart, in pieces and stitched up.

Stitched up heart, a stitched up soul, a stitched up life. A life made up, a life created, a life lived and now pervaded by one little lonely thought, a life so full, a life so lost and a life yet found. Found a life, found a heart, found a smile and there it is. It is a lonely, little thought that kills me slowly and gives me life. The life of hopeless romantics which I am not. The life of  . . . of those I don’t want to be, the life, the life I don’t want to live.

And yet, I live, I live beyond this lonely thought. I live as if it does not exist and I push and push until is nearly gone. Forgotten it stays until the end of the day,

My love letter

I love you as you are,

I accept you as you are.

I sit in quiet darkness, waiting for truth from your lips and warmth from your touch. But they will not come and I have to make my peace with it.

I pray to no god as I think of you and hope against all hope that you come to me without reservations and fear. But you will not come and I have to make my peace with it.

This is how I love you. Knowing you will not come but hoping that you will, knowing in my heart the truth of it all.

This is how I love you. As you are, even when you are short with me and anger comes to you. As you are, even when you’re afraid and coldness emanates from you.

I love you. Because you are funny, or rather you think you are. Because you are sweet and kind. Because you are intelligent and work hard. Because you are a good man.

Because you speak Spanish to me and because you text me in German.

Because you get mad at me and you cook me spaghetti.

Because you build a wall and don’t let me in.

Because you kiss me softly and you flirt.

Because you love your cat and most of all . . .

I love you because you’re imperfect as I am, and . . .

I love and I couldn’t say why.

To be free of me

What emptiness the end of love brings,

After the pain, although it was much less than expected,

The hours upon hours of leisure thinking when all the love is done,

There is no thinking of him, there is no missing him, there is no him,

Try as I may to think of him I cannot,

I cannot any more than to think I am not thinking of him,

Nothing more.

Nothing more to do, nothing more to miss, nothing more to suffer,

I am not with him, nor waiting to be with him, nor have I just been with him,

There is no more him,

Now whole days are open to me, what to do with my time?

I have no need to wait for his text, there will be none,

I am liberated from the wait and it is surpringsly pleasant,

I do love him and I am free of him,

A prison I created with my love for him,

I created it and closed myself in it,

A prision? Yes, but I was willing,

Willing, not now. 

I don’t feel the loss, maybe layer,

Later I will cry or throw myself of a cliff,

Although there are no cliffs here,

What to do until then?

Until the emptiness kills me,

While I live my life in the pleasant emptiness of his absence?

To love him and  . . . Be in happiness without him,

Seems a betrayal,

To him most of all,

To love him and not to miss him,

To love him and not want him,

To love him and be free of him,

To love him and let him be free of me.

In love

You cannot make someone love you.

You just have to let them go.

It is hard and it is painful.

There is only pain and darkness.