I’ve been alone in my mind for so long that this void doesn’t frighten me.

It was more than disappointment, but I gained from it. I learned from it. I leaned into it to step out of it. You learn from different perspectives and to be given the chance to grasp them is beautiful.

I don’t face sadness when friends leave because friends always come back. Yet when lovers leave, it’s like death. You’ll never see them again.

Eventually I’ll stop writing about you and it’ll be bittersweet. Not because I’m not in love with you, but because I’ll just love you.

When someone says they love you, don’t believe it. Love is shown with actions and not words.

I remember things like dates down to minutes, what they smelled like, how they walked and how they tug their hands in their pockets. I twine myself in nostalgia of moments and not necessarily the people in them. I long for the idea of the past and occasionally forget the present. I find myself lost in memories, just looking to recreate the moment; forgetting the past is in the past and what we have is now.

He wasn’t a good person, but I painted him to be and since I painted it, I believed it.

I love you, but I’m more in love with myself and that’s the problem.

I write in seconds. I don’t stop. I don’t think. I simply write and when it comes, it flows and it makes sense because it’s genuine. I don’t understand thought-out poetry. It doesn’t seem real to me.