I thought it up, and wrote it down.

Finger tips graze lips to tickle taste

Buds from flower pedal backwards with no hands down sidewalks of brick.

Built up build up under nail

Beds where we’ve let our bodies dance between

Sheets of paper, yellow wrinkled notes

Crumbled old dreams of used up hope and expired desire.

The label on love should say, Directions:  carefully place rose colored glasses over eyes.

Caution:  Product is meant to clarify vision but instead may cause blindness.

Use Sparingly.

Time spent wiping hearts off foggy windshields because old love always seems to reappear.  

What started as a love letter ended as another chance to practice my cursive

Because god forbid we detach the hands held between each letter.

Even they need something to hold onto.

Turns out love songs, our song, is just a musical representation of the way we once felt. 

Equivilant to my memory foam cheek which holds the shape of your palm on it. 

Unshakeable twilight dreams of breakable red light kisses under stars of inescapable beams and planets labeled Mr. and Misses. 

And if the universe could whisper I know I’d be the first to feel the tickle of his breath pressed against my ear. 

Pulled in close, overlapped souls, I’ll stand corrected if ever the wind blows. 

So I’m starting to realize that perhaps it wasn’t you I was so in love with.  So drawn into.  Perhaps I had nowhere else to put all my intense love feelings, so I let you hold on to them.  You aren’t the one for me and I know that now.  Love shouldn’t start as a desperate struggle, an uphill battle, a goal for attention or a prize to be won.  I am claiming my love.  I am taking it back.  Putting it onto myself.  All you are to me now is a vacant body whom once held my most precious gift but today is an empty picture frame that used to hold a memory. 

I’m letting go of you.
I’m letting go of you.

I’m letting go of you.

Goodbye.  You are not my lesson to learn any longer.  You are not my illusory version of a love story where I become the exception to your rule, the missing piece, the epiphany, the phenomenon.

I leave you not with anger or regret, but with acceptance.  It isn’t that my waist isn’t small enough, my hair isn’t thick enough, my ass isn’t round enough.  It’s that, I know a secret that you will never know.  You will never know because you will never ask.  And I will never volunteer it to a deaf ear or a blind eye.