To Love A Writer, Part 2/3

The bitter truth was foretold by his eyes as they progressively grew darker everyday,

Soon no longer a charming quirk but a tantalizing reality.

He stopped smiling at me,

Instead choosing to save his joy for the hearts of people he hadn’t grown tired of yet.

His worn and calloused hands belong somewhere else now,

Though they kept their distance long before the rest of him withdrew.

Suddenly I am staying awake every night,

Petrified of shutting my eyes in case I won’t be able to stop him from showing up and then disappearing again in the morning.

This isn’t healthy,

As I obsess over every detail and wonder where in the world I could have gone wrong.

Forgetting him is not as easy as I thought it would be,

Because part of me knew he was never going to stay.

He would give me some ill-conceived nonsense if he were here now,

“It had to be this way because I…”

I don’t even know what his excuse would be,

But I know he will always say anything to avoid owning up to the simple fact that he was tired of loving me.

Half-loved,

I was never going to be anything more than half-loved by him.

I am figuring out that writers love selfishly,

Taking and taking and using what comes of it for their personal benefit until they are too bored to continue.

I was only a fleeting flurry of emotions in his mind,

Only something to write about when it was all over.

No warning,

No consideration for anyone but himself.

I am not a story,

Or a character in one of his books.

This is not a fairy tale,

Even if it felt like one in the sweetest parts.

Leaving me behind was not poetic,

It just hurt.

Life can imitate art and the opposite is always true,

But reality and fiction cannot rightfully coexist.

My emotions and his actions,

They are composed of so much more than the biased words of his choosing.

He only writes about fear and regret,

Because he has a habit of running away when his life starts to become too real.

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