I was going to write a long story. The story of us. That’s what happens when you break a writer’s heart. We write about you.
I remember that glorious afternoon when I read you my poems for the first time. They were all about love, heartbreak, and more importantly, about me moving on.
I remember you loved them but the words also scared you. You chuckled nervously asking who was the guy I wrote these for. I honestly couldn’t remember.
“There have been a lot of heartbreaks, honey, I can’t keep track of them all,” I laughed. But I wasn’t joking and you saw what happens when I love so deeply but move on just as strongly.
Maybe you thought I’d write about you just like this when you’d leave. And I hoped you’d never want to, but you did.
Now that you’re gone, there’s this familiar urge in me to pour pour pour all the love and pain and rage and resentment onto the paper. To beautify the ruins you left me in.
But as I ran to my phone to quickly jot down the fast flow of ideas rushing through my brain, I saw the notes I had written about where I wanted to travel, the adventures I wanted to try, the cultures I wanted to experience, and the growth I wanted to unfold.
That’s when I realized, you’re not even worth writing about.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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