Pieces of him

For a while, 

I couldn't write. 

It started when I realized that 

he wasn't the person I loved anymore. 

I forgot what it felt like 

to have my throat shattered 

from screaming what 

I couldn't understand. 

But now, 

here I am, 

and I remember 

how much it can hurt, 

knowing that it isn't right, 

that it will never work, 

that it just can't. 

Everything was beautiful 

until it wasn't. 

It was all heaven 

until I found myself in hell. 

I don't even remember 

falling in love with him. 

I just remember 

holding his hand, 

realizing how much it would hurt 

when I had to let it go. 

He came into my life really fast, 

and I liked it. 

I remember how much it hurt 

when I came across him. 

He was like broken glass 

all over the floor. 

But it was lovely 

and my curiosity defeated me. 

I remember when I looked at him, 

all I could see was pain. 

He had this insane look 

of desperation. 

I could almost feel it. 

And yet his eyes were still 

kind and beautiful. 

They were only blue 

but when I looked at them 

I saw colours that don't even exist. 

They were the eyes of an artist 

and I was always lost in them 

and in his sad little stories. 

They moved me more 

than anything else. 

They effortlessly 

opened me up. 

I even fell for the way 

he smoked his cigarettes 

and I knew his face 

like the back of my hand. 

There was something 

peculiar about it, 

like the life had been 

sucked out of him. 

I wanted to pick up his pieces. 

I wanted to put him 

back together. 

And I tried. 

I really did. 

I got a little cut along the way. 

The more I tried to fix him, 

the more fragile I became 

but I didn't care. 

I wanted to see him happy. 

Every time I made him laugh, 

all I could think about was 

how I wanted to make him laugh forever. 

There was something about it 

that made me feel alive. 

He started to get better. 

Eventually he was good enough 

to get up and walk away. 

But he didn't take me with him. 

And since then 

I've been wondering 

if the pieces left on the floor 

are his or mine. 

He told me he photographed 

the things he loved

but he never 

took pictures of me. 

I guess sometimes things 

just don't work out 

the way we want them to. 

For instance that's why my parents 

live in separate homes. 

It's also why when we 

saw each other that day, 

he didn't even smile at me. 

And after all these years 

I think I was the only one 

who truly knew him. 

Or maybe I never knew him at all.

— m.f. // Pieces of him