I don’t know how long it has been since he decided he no longer wanted to be a part of me,
Maybe it’s been years but there’s a nagging voice in my head simultaneously telling me that it happened just yesterday.
Regardless of how long it has been,
I am breathing normally once and for all.
My lungs have finally freed themselves from the man who wanted to tell them how to operate,
And I’m not blinded by his try-hard beauty anymore.
He left a disastrous mess in his wake,
One that I believed so strongly was too massive to take on alone.
I knew I had to try anyway because there was no whole part of me left to keep me alive,
And I taught myself how to pick up every piece without him.
He didn’t half-love me because half-loved is still loved,
But instead he only paid attention to me when it was most convenient.
That’s what got me through the process of transforming back into a person I can recognize,
The idea that he never really loved me at all because I know that the intent of the heart is best exposed when it’s inconvenienced.
It took having my heart broken,
To become whole for the first time in my life.
With every day that I am given,
I am an ever-improved version of the person I know I really am.
And with my newfound perspective,
Comes a brand new kind of living as well.
He makes words out of me too,
But this one immortalizes me in the beautiful poetry he writes.
I know I am safe with him but never bored,
Full of laughter and home-coming every single day.
He is not an enigma or an over-complicated mystery that I can only figure out right as he’s changing the plot again,
But instead a book of memories and secrets and compassion that he can’t wait to let me read every day.
To love a writer,
Is to be loved by someone who will turn your best parts into their masterpieces.