i’ve loved people before. deeply. each time new, testing me and stretching my boundaries more than the last. giving me lessons. teaching me to love myself before i’m lost in loving anyone else. but nothing quite like you.
i wasn’t searching for you, you kinda just happened. before i loved you, i knew you. and through knowing you, i learned to love you. you taught me how to love you. silently. and all i had to do was listen to you speak. after while it became easy; we’d talked til 2 or 3. your words became poetry, and i couldn’t help but read. our chemistry was at its peak. it was like you were dancing with me.
i learned to love you. not like anything i’d felt before. i didn’t think myself into it like i usually did. i’d actually tried to think myself out of it. i liked you. more than i’d find myself liking anyone else. and the symptoms were all the same on paper, but they influenced my body differently. nothing i could bring to a doctor. i wouldn’t call it love sick, but i was well enough to know i liked the sickness. it fit me. i was drawn to you. i felt you tug at my soul.
and that feeling would go on for months, but instead of maintaining its purity, it’d became hurt laced with love. but i’d still feel you tug. you weren’t fair, but you were enough.
at a point i would have rather it hurt to love you than it hurt to not to. either way, i was fucked and letting go was not an option. because i meant it when i said i always would. it wasn’t just a vow to you, but a vow to me. even when i faltered i tried to fix it. unconditionally means unconditionally, and i would have taken whatever punishment to love you because it’d become apart of my coding. the first time i acknowledged that i loved you, the tug felt like a pull and it lit my world up. you changed my smile. you heightened my intentionality. i’d forgotten what it felt like not to love you because loving you became my identity and one of my only priorities. vows and promises are real. and words mean things. losing you felt like losing me.
i’ve told this story countless times. i never get to the end because it was impossible to feel, even harder to write, but it’d be the worst to read. the tug is gone. the scar i have doesn’t bleed. but the mark it left and will continue to leave won’t fade. the story of a sick scar is always better than a sad one, and stories get too real when they’re marked in ink.
i wasn’t searching for you, you kinda just happened. before i loved you, i knew you. and through knowing you, i learned to love you. you taught me how to love you. silently. and all i had to do was listen to you speak. after while it became easy; we’d talked til 2 or 3. your words became poetry, and i couldn’t help but read. our chemistry was at its peak. it was like you were dancing with me.
i learned to love you. not like anything i’d felt before. i didn’t think myself into it like i usually did. i’d actually tried to think myself out of it. i liked you. more than i’d find myself liking anyone else. and the symptoms were all the same on paper, but they influenced my body differently. nothing i could bring to a doctor. i wouldn’t call it love sick, but i was well enough to know i liked the sickness. it fit me. i was drawn to you. i felt you tug at my soul.
and that feeling would go on for months, but instead of maintaining its purity, it’d became hurt laced with love. but i’d still feel you tug. you weren’t fair, but you were enough.
at a point i would have rather it hurt to love you than it hurt to not to. either way, i was fucked and letting go was not an option. because i meant it when i said i always would. it wasn’t just a vow to you, but a vow to me. even when i faltered i tried to fix it. unconditionally means unconditionally, and i would have taken whatever punishment to love you because it’d become apart of my coding. the first time i acknowledged that i loved you, the tug felt like a pull and it lit my world up. you changed my smile. you heightened my intentionality. i’d forgotten what it felt like not to love you because loving you became my identity and one of my only priorities. vows and promises are real. and words mean things. losing you felt like losing me.
i’ve told this story countless times. i never get to the end because it was impossible to feel, even harder to write, but it’d be the worst to read. the tug is gone. the scar i have doesn’t bleed. but the mark it left and will continue to leave won’t fade. the story of a sick scar is always better than a sad one, and stories get too real when they’re marked in ink.
