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he was the kind of muse that every poet should never meet in real life. he's too beautiful to write, and just like how beautiful things often end soon, he's too. he's good at making love sound like a promise when it was only ever an intermission. and i, foolishly, gave him everything i wrote, every word i bled, every heartbeat i borrowed from the quiet hours when the world was asleep and only my longing was awake.
funny how i turned his silence into sonnets, his half-smiles into metaphors, even his absence into entire novels. but he never read a single page of it. maybe that's what hurts the most — it's not the leaving, but the indifference between us. to him, i was a chapter easily closed. meanwhile to me, he was the book i couldn't stop re-reading even when i already knew the ending. he's my muse, but i am his it's okay to lose.
it's funny how love can feel like both a sunrise and a funeral sometimes.
there were times when i'd wonder what was so wrong about the way i loved . he'd say my heart was "a little intense," and i'd laugh, pretending it was a compliment. but it wasn't. he wanted the kind of girl who didn't think feelings were galaxies and the one who didn't write about them like survival.
he wanted easy, and i was thunder — loud, messy, and impossible to hold. still, back then i kept hoping he'd find a poetry in the storm. i kept hoping he'd see the way i looked at him — like he was every lyric i'd ever lost.
i remember the night he left like a song that never fades. the air was thick with his soft and cruel voice, saying he needed to find himself as if loving me was something that took away from who he was. as if loving me meant losing himself. was i ever enough? maybe not.
maybe i was only meant to be the girl who felt too deeply. the one who turned her heartbreak into an art. maybe my purpose was to be broken beautifully.
now i write his name less and less, though some nights it still echoes between my ribs like it knows that it's supposed to live there.
i've learned that loving someone who cannot stay is a form of self-destruction disguised as devotion. i've learned that some people aren't meant to be kept and only to be written about.
but still, when i hear his favorite song on the radio, something inside me take me back to those memories— the part of me that once believed he could love me the way i loved him. and maybe that's the cruelest kind of love — the one that teaches you that your everything can still be someone else's almost.
so here i am, ink-stained and bruised, still writing about a boy who never stayed long enough to become real. he's gone, and yet he's everywhere—in every blue i've ever felt, in every line i've ever written that starts with you and ends with why wasn't i enough?