Dear You,

This was never about love. If it were, it would be too easy; it would be too simple, too pretty. It’s too pure to be called love, too genuine. It’s too dirty, too shameful to be called love. So this is about bruises glowing navy against my skin. It’s about your voice irritable and impatient at my voice slithering quietly, eyes watering. It’s about twisted ugly faces at the sound of laughter; it’s about you saying the wrong thing at the right time. It’s about me hurling accusations so hard, so furiously it burns my throat. It’s about the slamming of doors, it’s about the bitter chill of silence, and it’s about the dead air between two moving things. It’s about the terrifying hard edge of a cold shoulder; it’s about the rancid taste of doubt settling on my tongue and on yours.

It’s too beautiful to be love. It’s about when ‘I forgive you’ is uttered desperately, shyly, and wholeheartedly. A solution, a resolve to another three words ‘you hurt me’ which is a need for another three words, ‘I need you’.

It’s too real to be love.

It’s about you not understanding me, it’s about me wishing you were more like me, wishing you would tear the inner lining of me just to figure out and understand. Thinking back; it’s about when I realize I would despise you if you were anything like me. I would surely hate you if you were a mimic of me, a hint of a shadow of my fingerprint. 

It’s too strange to be love.

It’s about wanting your veins to twist and twirl with mine. It’s about your breath being the very breath I exhale every time my chest rises and falls. It’s about your heart being my heart; it pumps blood through you and to me. We fall and fly as it flows, flows, and flows -the electrical impulses that keep your brilliant mind working- keeping your skin warm. My mind works to keep up with yours.

This is too much of me and too much of us to be love. And you and I are not that easy, we couldn’t be. If this ever was love, the end would be near because it’s too simple and we’re too complex. Always changing faces.