Still now I send letters into space
Hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down
And recognise you from the descriptions in my poems
That he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you,
There is a girl who still writes you, she doesn’t know how not to.
I will not be your “sometimes”.
They say that if you say something too many times it will lose it’s meaning
So I kept saying I love you, I love you, I love you
And waiting for it to fade
But it didn’t
You kept telling me you loved me
“I love you, I love you, I love you”
But I don’t know if you still do
I wish someone could tell me how falling out of love works
Can you wake up and an entire relationship turn to dust and ash in your heart,
Ready to be swept out to the wind to make room for new experiences, new people, new repetitions?
Or can I rise like a phoenix from those ashes and set your heart on fire again?
If there’s a mustard seed left, I’ll plant it.
Give me an apple and I’ll grow you an orchard.
If there were more planting analogies for me here, ones about faith and patience, I’d use them.
Because even after days of silence, I still spend my shooting stars on you.
I will blow out all the candles, break every wish bone. I will dig out my ruby slippers and click my heals together three times because home is when I’m alone with you.
We would not be the center of the universe, but we would be the brightest stars in a constellation. And if we collapsed into cosmic crucibles, it would only be to begin again.