time turns flames to embers

i write this now for i've come to a point where i don't feel for you the way i used to anymore, neither do i miss you "the way the sun misses the stars in the morning sky"or any other grandiose metaphor i would have likened you to, and it's sad, how every single unfettered feeling eventually turns its way into ash, but i know now that no feeling is ever final just like how we will never be the way we used to yesterday, or the person we are constantly changing into everyday, and sometimes, that's just the way it has to be.  i write this now because what it took was to understand, what it took was to come to terms with the bits of reality that did nothing more than to make you feel less whole than you wanted to be, i write this now because you made me see all these gory bits of myself i never knew i had in me, for people are people and we are constantly destroying these parts of ourselves for other people — but we can't blame them for that, we can't blame the people we once loved for making us feel the way we felt, for we once loved them for the way we saw them in our eyes, we loved them for the way they once made us feel, but feelings are fleeting and when it comes to a point that the way they are doesn't give you that wonderfully fluttering feeling anymore and you decide that you can't find it within yourself to love them anymore, that's where i come to realise that you're just as human as anyone could ever be, you are not everything i thought you out to be, or everything i wanted you to be.  and perhaps that's just how treacherous it really is — to believe a person could be anything more than a person, because they're not and they'll always, always fall short of what you expected them to be.  perhaps this was the part that hurt the most, to have known that you would have continued to love a person for all their uncertainties, for all their imperfections and for all the times they've failed you, for all the times they've destroyed every single cell of hope within you only to know that you could never be half as important to them as they are to you, and only to realise then that you've already bled yourself dry — and so i am not writing this now to let you know that there are scars and calluses and potmarks in every nook, every cranny of my body, or that the places you once touched are no longer sacred like the way they used to be, or that i carry nothing else in my palms than the hearts of boys i could never love, i am writing this because i am so sorry for how long it's taken me to let things go