Too riddled with inconsistencies to remember how to tell the truth. Too busy dissecting your mistakes to notice when you’re being sincere. Too obsessed with how others perceive us to take comfort in our balanced imperfections. Too troubled by your misery to fix my own sadness. Too preoccupied with your life to live my own.
I am forgetting myself again. Cast in your shadows, tracing your footsteps, always steps behind, always waiting, always late. Always caught in the middle between leaving you and being left, not sure which is worse.
Being left is always worse.
You never truly understand the value of something until it’s gone. Even then we try to salvage the leftovers, make art out of forgotten promises, but the bitterness seeps through and the sour taste lingers like burnt coffee.
Walking down the cobbled path, my hand grasping his a little too tightly, trying to keep my balance on the uneven steps. We caught glimpses of the sunset but never stuck around long enough to see all the colours. We called each other baby and kissed frequently, the taste of tobacco stuck to the back of my throat and I adored his particular disheveled charm. We drove too fast and lived recklessly because being young afforded you that luxury. We stayed up late and drank too much and smoked till our lungs were black and our hearts felt less heavy. Being around him was an escape from reality, I was never sober long enough to contemplate my own mortality. We sang along to bad music and danced under the moonlight and I swallowed my pride till all that was left was envy. We fell in love and I fell apart and boy he left me empty.