Hey you —
where do I even start?
Maybe there's no perfect place,
so I'll stand here, barefoot in my mind,
heart bruised raw, words unbuttoned —
and I'll just say it plain:
I don't know how to stop loving you.
I don't know if I ever will.
God knows I tried.
You tried too.
This love, this curse, this perfect storm
nobody else sees —
it's the kind of thing poets drown for,
and I guess we did.
Maybe you're reading this years from now,
laughing at how much of myself I carved out
just to keep you warm.
Maybe you're rolling your eyes at my drama,
telling your friends:
he was intense, he was too much,
but I hope somewhere in your bones you whisper —
he was mine.
I was your idiot.
Your late-night caller,
your secret keeper,
your safe place and your hurricane.
The one who showed up even when you slammed the door.
The one who begged.
The one who stayed.
Always stayed.
And you?
You were my rain —
falling soft when I needed gentle,
hitting hard when I needed pain.
You were the ache that made me write
and the silence that made me beg.
You were never easy,
never kind,
never mine enough —
but damn, you were everything.
So here's the truth I won't say to your face:
I still want you.
I still wait for a version of us that doesn't hurt.
If it never comes —
if one day you wake up and I'm just a memory
that tastes like a smile you can't place —
then fine.
At least I'll know
I loved you the loudest.
I loved you the way storms love the sea:
all ruin, all hunger, all forever.
This is how we begin.
With too much heart.
With not enough sense.
With the rain between us —
and a fool who swears he'd drown
a thousand times more
just to call you his again.