and the hand on my heart i had promised a few weeks ago
has fallen back down to my side, tired.
because love can’t be promised.
love is something that should wrap around your
neck leaving you gasping for air every time you see them
but when it leaves you looking through all the pages
that you wrote down in your diary about him
and you get nothing from it,
you realise you can’t promise love
and you’ve gotten so good at fooling everyone
that you even fool yourself sometimes
because nobody would want to feel anything
after waking up to what they did
so you tell him
then you’re left there gasping for air
but not in the ‘promised love’ way,
in a way that can’t be described.
the sad thing about giving love is that it can leave you with
no love left to give
so when its him this time reading your diary
and is left gasping for air like he’s being choked
by your tired arm that promised the love,
you feel nothing.
I thought I was so goddamn lucky
Lucky that in the midst of busy streets and wrong turns and missed trains I met you
Lucky that you loved me
Lucky that everyone else was too unlucky to meet you first
Lucky that I got to wear your scent on my skin like a little kid wearing her favorite sweatshirt everyday
Lucky that I got to kiss you whenever I wanted
Lucky that I got to kiss you at all
Lucky that when I cried onto your t-shirt you never minded
Lucky that you loved me
Lucky that I got to sleep next to you
Lucky to be in love
Lucky to fall asleep on the phone with you and wake up with you still on the line, breathing heavily with sleep in your chest
Lucky that after you hung up the phone you’d rush over to see me
Lucky that I got butterflies and lost my breath even after all those months
Lucky that I loved you so much I’d let you tear me apart
But how unlucky it is to love someone too much,
To be torn apart
How unlucky it is to be so lucky.
