of your eyes, begonia skies

here is the truth, in the most painful, most brutal way imaginable: he doesn't love you, he wants to love you, but he doesn't. he can love you, but he doesn't. and here's the deal: it will throb within you the way entire oceans do and it culminates into this gigantic orb of fiery emotion and it will burn you, with each lapping wave, with each passing moment, with every lingering word; he will start entire forest fires within you — and the kind that burns for hours and hours on end. 

Let me tell you— love is the last winter bird, love never comes home, love fades and love fades all the time, love is a transaction it's a pursuit it's an unworthy investment because you give and you give and you give and you don't mind that you have nothing left you don't mind that all that's left of you is a half empty glass of water that's constantly watering these flowers that don't even bloom in the darkest parts of you. 

Love leaves scars, crescent-shaped, beneath the curves of your left ear and more often than not, love leaves reminders of it's absence, reminders manifested in every shape and form imaginable so much so you never really remember its presence.

I love you, I don't know, and maybe that's precisely why I need to let you go