I Loved You - Tumblr Posts

My will wilts in the wake of your words.

To change a heartbeat 

I know now Why you said it As he tells me he loves me Tells me I should open up more  As he tells me he loves me I feel the words clawing their way up my throat 'You don't even know me' I know now why you said it

And I do not blame you

I don't like the way we said goodbye.

All The Things I Never Told You, All The Things I Will Never Get to Tell You

5 Phases of Missing You

1. Like a drug addict. All craving and obsession. 

2. Like a drug addict in withdrawal. Violently. Constantly. 

3. Like missing summer. Fingers crossed and longing. Knowing there is nothing I can do to bring you back around but wait for the world to keep turning. Wait for fate to decide.

3. Like missing summer. Meaning sometimes I forget to miss you at all, until I look outside and realize you are no longer there, and fall asleep to images of you leaking into my dreams. 

4. Like missing childhood. Knowingly and resentfully and kindly. Wishing I had made more of it when I had it. Realizing I will never have it back now. Trying to recreate it, recapture it always. But it is gone. 

4. Like missing childhood. You left me with scars and fond memories. But you are gone. 

4. Like missing childhood. I miss it quietly and softly and out of the blue. But it is gone. 

5. Like missing hiccups. Remembering the way breathing hurt when you showed up for 5 solid minutes before youd disappear for however long you pleased. Remembering you were always annoying as hell whenever you decided to show up and wrack my body and leave me breathless. 

5. I miss you like hiccups. Meaning I don’t. 

I would give up all my heartbreak poetry for you.

A Writer’s Paradox 

When She Tells You That She Loves You For The First Time

When she tells you she loves you, for the first time It will be over the phone You will hold your breath You have not misheard her, though you will wonder if you have You will wonder if she can hear your heartbeat over the line You will wonder, if your's quieted, if you would be able to hear hers You will wonder if she has hung up You will double check that the call is still running Just in case You will contemplate both running and hanging up Just in case Just in case she meant it, just in case she didn't When she tells you she loves you, for the first time   You will want to believe it, with everything you do not have left Believe it I promise you that she means it, with everything she does not have left When she tells you she loves you, for the first time This will not be the first time either of you have imagined her putting these words into the space between you But this is the first time she has given you a chance to catch them, to catch her And is that not love? Two people, using the words I love you like the salvation of echolocation Letting the sound out, waiting for it to hit the other person Waiting for the echo to return to realize how far or close something is to you The echo that will help you orientate yourself in this dark cave of a world where we have all gone blind When she tells you she loves you, for the first time It will be over the phone You will reply, you will wish she would have hung up, you will wish you would have run, but you will reply You will wish you hadn't, but you will reply You will either echo her words back to her and realize how close you two really are or You will echo her words back to her and realize how far you two really are or You will say something stupid and hang up... and call her back, and echo her words back When she tells you she loves you, for the first time Smile. Let the melody thrum in your veins and sing you to sleep Let it be what wakes you in the morning and keeps you awake

When she tells you she loves you, for the first time Smile. Let yourself believe she means it I promise you she thinks she does 

The funny thing about two artists being in love is that sometimes they both agree to look away from the fact that maybe they were both just in it for the inspiration.

The Universe's Sense of Humor

And I realize this poem could be longer. But it isn't. Because you never had much of an attention span. And I realize even after all this time I am still writing for you.

A Writer’s Paradox 

You can stop hurting me now, I swear I'm already trying to fall out of love with you.

- To Change a Heartbeat

Ask the Moon

On the days that I have gone silent and it seems so has our love When I seem to be drifting away from you slowly Caving in on myself slowly On the days When my eyes cannot seem to focus on what is right in front of me And you begin to look foreign and I, like a stranger

On the days that I have gone silent and it seems so has our love I invite you to ask the moon for all it knows of me Retell all the nights we spent together just her and me, often in the company of shiny things; Like city lights and phones and stars and tears Ask the sun to tell you my story and then tell ours She did not see me often, But still smiled every time we passed Tell her I know she was trying. Let her tell you that she knew I was too Ask the air, to spill all the secrets I have breathed to it. You will hear your name more than once Go ahead. I give you permission. Let them tell you more of me than I ever could.

Let them tell you of how they saw childhood melt off of me leaving sticky honey footprints on the pavement and watched as me and my shadowed merged.

On the days I have gone silent and it seems so has our love

Stay Have a conversation with the moon Let her tell you of how even though she sees less of me now, she is glad of it Let the sun whisper it's thanks to you for getting me out more, share your love of playing with my hair and kissing my eyelids Have a conversation with the air that shudders in our presence Let them tell you of how different the whispers taste now, of how different I taste now Make friends with my friends Let them remind you of everything you mean to me Even when I can't

On the days I have gone silent and it seems so has our love Let the moon keep you company and assure you both her and I will be back tomorrow On the days I have gone silent and it seems so has our love Ask the moon She knows Better than I do Exactly how much I love you

I often think falling in love is like being stabbed, for more than one reason. See, it is forced upon us without much choice. Plunged into the depths of our soul and we call the pain a blessing because at least something has reached us. Has touched us. At least we feel something. I often think falling in love is like being stabbed, for more than one reason. It is fast and violent, too quick for you to realize what is happening until you stagger back and realize what is really going on. You stare at the hilt jutting out of you, mesmerized, terrified. Because it hurts when it happens, but we are more scared of the pain that will come with the extraction of this thing killing us. We call the removal Heartbreak when really our heart was fractured as soon as we were hit, yet we only start to feel it when the blade that was keeping us together, filling the wound is taken back. And we choose the torture that is love every time Because we know we can either live with this ache or bleed out alone.

The Universe’s Sense of Humor

“Hey,” they look at me trying to draw my attention and I try, I really do, try and focus.

“Hey, you're going to be okay,” they lean in another inch and their voice is soft and I try and focus on that.

“You can do this,” they are only an inch or two away and I can feel the warmth of their breath as they whisper these words and I try to focus on that.

“Adam, look at me,” and I do, “when you're there,” I take an unsteady breath at the mere mention of some moment beyond this one. But their gaze is beseeching as they look up at me and I try to focus on that.

“Hey, no, listen, when you're there I want you to try and imagine a moment. A happy moment. Maybe something from your childhood. Maybe something from a good time with a friend. Maybe a summer walk. Maybe imagine being in the kitchen, preferably not flooding,” they smile meekly, “in the middle of the night. Imagine you and me with a cup of tea. And go to that place when you need to escape. To go somewhere else for a bit. Okay?” I nod. Only slightly. Because they are so close I can feel every word as much as I can hear it and I do not trust myself to speak.

“A happy place yeah? Where you felt good and safe and okay...” there gaze trails from my eyes down the rest of my face and up again and I focus on that.

“A happy moment, maybe even this one…” the hand behind my neck is guiding my head down and their lips are on mine. Soft and warm and we share a breath and it is as though they are reminding me to breathe. And even though I am nervous now it is a good nervous and when they pull back and look at me I am focused on that.

“Are you okay…” they ask slowly, warily.

“Yes,” I breath.

“Remember, you can always call me. It’ll be tricky but we’ll work it out. Okay? You ready?”

I don't know what to say. How to say I will never be ready. That I was not ready for any of this. I know I cannot stay here forever but just another moment. Another minute. Another millisecond.

Their hand is still on my neck and I find my hand trailing up theirs, resting on their upper arm

“Maybe,” I feel their warmth seeping out of their jacket and pay more attention this time. A happy moment, try to mentally photograph it, memorize every detail.

“Maybe just another one for the road,” I whisper.

Leaving France ~ Excerpt from A Woman’s World. 

Preformed at my city's first slam and came in second place...and met the mayor...and got a gift card to a book store...like-- could it get any better?

Seeing the person you love asleep and admiring how peacefully beautiful they are is great, but have you ever seen them the opposite of asleep? Like awake, really awake, and focused and alive and in their element, to the point where they barely notice you, but you don’t care because holy shit they’re gorgeous

Superstition

Noun // so͞opərˈstiSH(ə)n// a widely held but unjustified belief in supernatural causation leading to certain consequences of an action or event, or a practice based on such a belief

I carry an odd sense of superstition. That is to say, I do not believe open umbrellas inside or shattered hand mirrors will bring me bad luck. Soulmates and miracles are nothing more to me than fairy tale endings but I do carry an odd sense of superstition. 

That is to say that I believe magic eight balls hold fate’s voice, and that fate is the universe’s cruel sense of humour. My superstition entails wishing on stars and birthday candle flames. Wishing on fallen eyelashes and blowing them into the wind hoping an angel which catch them and hear my prayer.  I carry an odd sense of superstition, which is to say I believe in love and all other impossible things.  

And when I ask you to leave me be. Let me go. You say you cannot do that. What you do not realize is that you already have.

The Heartbreak Theory & The Loss Complex 

I thought I loved you

And then you left

And I realized I most definitely did

~Always a little too late~ T.R.

As I watch you leave and in turn, hold my breath as the possibility of something beautiful fades away, I become sure this is what I am truely greiving. Not the loss of this temporary happiness but the more permanent hope it held. And I think, yes, I will miss you but I will also miss the me I could have been with you if you had just waited. Let the tears crystallize and let the lip stick stains set. And I wonder if one day you too will look back on us and your heart will shudder in recognition of everything we could have become. In reverence and longing for all things lovely life might have spun itself into for us. Perhaps, someday, you will look back on everything we were and know what I know now: that we could have been something beautiful if you had just held on a little longer.

~Excuses for missing you~ T.R.

A softer stage of heartbreak

this stage of heartbreak is softer than i remember. which is to say i have run out of tears weeks earlier than usual. the fits of sorrow more violent this time around. sob sessions on weekend mornings missing you. fighting the urge to call. panic attacks in locked bathroom stalls because hadent you promised?

but it is over now. and the edges of my broken heart are softer. less jagged. not shattered just, broken.

i can catch your eye without having my heart skip a beat. but sometimes i think that when we lock eyes that that beat of my heart belongs to you. for only a moment. before i smile quickly, glance away.

did you know i can do that now? look away. walk away. i can walk away and not look back. have my thoughts drift away from you by the time i turn the corner...most of the time.

your voice and name do not evoke summer sautls from my stomach. instead fond memories dipped in regret and baby blue sadness.

i still wish on eyelashes for you though. but sometimes i wish for myself now too. sometimes i wish just to be happy. and sometimes when i wish this i do not even think of you.

I broke a heart once. Twice. A few times. It is not what one might expect. Because I assure you every promise I have broken hurt me as much as it did you. Every night you cried yourself to sleep I was granted no such relief. I laid awake in bed, tossing and turning. Feeling the fragments of your heart sprinkled and caught in the bedsheets. They cut me every time I moved, breathed, blinked. Raging a million paper cut wound revenges. And I, bled out into the blankets without resistance. Thinking maybe you could use this blood sacrifice like glue. But you have never been the blood thirsty type.

~I never thought I would break a heart