supercut of us

suddenly i could listen to a love song and not think of you

I hate writing when I’m not inspired.

It’s two am and sometimes I think that if I drink too much, I could end up in at your door. You wouldn’t let me in, of course, and once again, you haven’t even give me your address, but I deemed myself so invincible when I was in love with you that I felt like I could just simply find it, anyway. But then I remember you moved cities, and you never gave me that address either, only a bittersweet empty promise that you still wanted to see me. I held it dearly in my heart on the cold months, and I'm doing my best to let it go on spring. If I try really hard, I can forget the way I only read “I want you” and my brain froze.

I still think of you more than I’d be proud to admit, there’s no way to understand me if they haven’t heard your name once or twice at least. I like to name the blades who cut me open, but it has never given me as much mercy as I hoped for. A cut is a cut and it still bleeds and I fear you will be the ‘cut that always bleeds’ forever. My mother language has a prettier term for this but I fear I can never do it justice.

We haven’t talked in six months. It would’ve been a year if I haven’t texted you in that one afternoon when I was too bored. Texting you again is a small betrayal to all of my past selves, but I entretain it anyway. I never do it, of course, except in the nights when I’m drunk, the main reason I have your contact archived but never the nerve to actually erase it.

I never call and you never answer, and we will be fine like that. Weren’t we bigger than fine though? For a moment in time, if only?

I think of you more than I’d be proud to admit, watch your stories on instagram because you never took me off the close friends, and I try to piece together who you are now. A small city girl, now a big city resident. Name your best romcom, you got the lead. I’d play whatever part you’d like me to, as long as I could be part of your story.

I think of you more than I’d be proud to admit, revisit our brief encounters in my head the thousandth time, because it couldn’t hurt any more than it already did. I look into the starry sky and see a cloud just below the moon and suddenly it’s all us. I never call and you never answer and I never send anything I write from my heart to anybody. I go silent for months, all your absence could remind me of is a bunch of self-hatred I was getting comfortable forgetting about.

I think of you more than I’d be proud to admit, I write things only you’d understand and I swear I will never tell a soul. Some things will forever remain only ours.

I quote your phrases more than my brain is content with, but how could I not? You're a better poet than I could ever dream of being. I don’t think another person could comprehend what you were to me unless they’ve been there, which is to say, I don’t think any of the people reading this could understand it. I’ll take you off close friends before I post this one, as well as anyone else who might know you. I never mention you by the name. I never read your texts again but they remain starred on my message app. I can go a whole week without thinking of you.

It’s still more than I’d be proud to admit. Do you think of me at all? Do you ever wonder what we could’ve been, if the timing was right and if I wasn’t so intense and if your heart was a little bit softer to let yourself be loved? I get it, I really do, but I can’t be your lover on a leash. Now, at least, I feel like you’ve let go of it, and I can run. And for someone who relates to the bolter by taylor swift so much, I’m sure as loyal to you as a dying dog.

Do you ever wonder? I never call and you never answer, but do you wonder nevertheless? There was a time I could picture an entire life by your side. Do you? Could you, too? I tell myself it wasn’t all a lie between us, and I can sleep better. I haven’t drank because of you in six months. Sometimes I forget the color of your eyes.

In the same way this could be many things (reason why it was so hard to title it), I like to think it's a grave. It tells the story of something already dead, but it doesn't forget it was once alive. I was this person and I wrote all this things once. All the love I gave her is hers to keep, but I must not leave my heart here too. Rotten has never suited me.

I am so glad you showed me I could love like this, but I hope I never have to doubt my heart in favor of somebody else ever again.

love you, juno.