gone with the wind

one hundred and thirty seven

chapter 137
"to myself: until you come home, 2021"

my fingers tap on a fragile glass on wine
and I think so deeply about last year,
oh, july of 2019: how you shaped me

how you threw love at me
showed me how comforting it was
and how deadly it was all at once

how you tamed the beast in me
how you ran your hands through my hair
detangling my worries

so softly:
then you gripped my hair and pulled me away
from the person I loved unrequitedly

and under pink lights
I pondered on the idea
of risking it all for her.

now in 2020 I laugh at the thought
cause everything worked out fine
without her.

I loved her regardless
and it got me some amazing nights
and some breathtaking mornings

so I don't regret it
but at the same time,

oh my god
I wish it never happened.

it is simply strange to think that
it has been a whole year
since I came to terms with myself.

and I know I am undeserving
cause I ask for a lot:
but if I could ask of just one more thing...

I hope this time next year I am alright.
and I hope I haven't broken another heart
I hope I am floating
and not holding onto transparent waves
to keep me afloat.

tell me you're okay
and please god be over her.