He never writes on Sundays, yet here I am; checking every hour as if miracles were nothing but a mundane thing.

He never writes after three, yet here I am; waiting every hour as if he’d ever stay awake just to hear from me.

He never promised a thing, yet here I am; wishing for the impossible to occur at any minute. The impossible or the expected. I’m so fucking tired of this limbo.



I hope that you are content, and thoughts of me don’t make you tremble in your sleep. That you don’t wake at midnight and sigh when she doesn’t sit up watching you like I did. I hope you don’t weep when you don’t drown in her eyes like you did in mine.

I hope she doesn’t trouble you with dreams and fantasies, that she’s grounded and rational like I was not.. that her love is peaceful and secure, not wild and fiery like mine was.

I hope that she doesn’t tighten her fingers around your throat when you fuck, that her lips don’t burn through your flesh when she calls your name.

You chose ordinary, my love. So I pray our love born in hell doesn’t make you ache to return.