9/11/2024

I wonder what rotten parts of myself continue to write out these awful chapters

Stories that make no sense unless read backwards

Those who love me tell I've lived many lives

They ask me how I've managed to get by

They often tell me I'm worthy and deserving of love

-of a life, I know nothing about

Love doesn't feel like a chapter I'll find in my book

Sure-like everyone else, I've thought about what my love story could be

The more time passes, the more I'm convinced that it is me

Who is to become the love of my life-

Laced and intertwined in all my chapters

When it comes to love people focus on the beginning and ends

How did it start? How did it end?

What milestones are significant enough to bookmark?

But are these moments really things worth folding the corner of your page for?

I think the moments are in the folds of the pages

The things no one else can see or feel

You cant capture these things and brag about it on the internet

It means nothing to anyone else but you

What good is a marriage, if you feel unseen by your partner?

What good is a 100 rose bouquet, if every other day you're unappreciated?

I guess I just don't understand

What's the appeal of something so ingenuine?

Life is hard to sort out as it is

My memories feel more real than I am

They're more alive than I am

I get lost and consumed by a life that no longer is

I value the pauses

The moments that bring me back

Milliseconds of an image, scent, sound, or taste will derail me

But it's also the milliseconds in a smile, laugh, or touch that set me back on course

These are the things I annotate

I make sure to mark the pages of pause

It means nothing to anyone else but me