Tag: love letters

What Would Have Been

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Photo by Oleg Magni from Pexels

Would it be so wrong if I grabbed your hand?

And if I did, where on my body would your arm land?

Would it make someone cry if you touched my lips

with your gaze for one more second?

I don’t mind at all if in your life I always come in as second.

Would I take it too far if I never looked away?

Your eyes were stuck on mine, and I wish that they could stay.

Would you still make me laugh if we weren’t just friends?

Would you like me without jewelry and playful pretends?

With every moment you’re bringing me up from the underwater.

I can’t wait to take the first breath, to not feel stuck.

Please pull me out. And do it faster.

Reach for me and take me out of the rut.

The space I’ve kept has been there for too long.

Please, squeeze my fingers three times, like in that song…

***

Would it be so wrong?

Or did you fake it all along

And is it not me that you long

To pull close? Could be, I suppose.

But would that be so wrong?

-JW

Airplanes and Neon Lights

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Photo by Hasan Albari from Pexels

I look outside my window each night and see airplanes landing over your house,

Their lights blending with the night sky. I am standing by the frame like a loyal spouse –

Protecting your gravities, stopping engines from failing at my own expense.

This sunken faith of mine has never touched the deep end. It is losing oxygen and common sense.

However, it hurts stunningly. The view is too precious to go into it blind –

And the neon lights across the street remind me of your gleeful eyes meeting mine.

Sometimes I stargaze a bit too far – so I fall, forgetting that you are out of reach.

How easy it is to overlook the distance when your instincts are soaked in bleach.

I know it is hard for you to maintain the illusion that your blinds are shut on these nights

But it is not my imagination making up the fact that you have not slept as you are picking fights

With the only good thing you had in your life. But is it my fault? Not shutting the curtains

When you so desperately needed the spark? Do not lie if you are uncertain.

You need me to be by the window, and you do not want to wait for it anymore.

I guess the first time that I touched you, it was clear – you do not mind some glory or gore

If it means holding my palm in your hitched hand for a bit longer.

At moments like this I wish I could be a complete loner.

But I cannot be – so I throw my pride against the foggy glass

Hoping it breaks your chains, at last.

-JW

A Hearse

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Photo by Dark Indigo

My arms are twisted from the heaviness of your lust.

Without your stare on my neck the world seems unjust.

I don’t want you. You make me worse. You’re my hearse.

But your passion for violence feels like a blessing

And not a curse.

We’re both trying to swim in this hurricane that is raging up north.

At the end, what will it all be worth?

Is this another tale where I was a fix up for an unruly mind?

Is this a contract that we both signed to get fined –

So I could crush my ego, and you could throw out your principles

To feel less invincible?

Less cynical?

Let’s not pretend we can make it alone. And let’s not be naïve –

If we hold on to each other for a moment or less,

We will slice one another in order to aggrieve –

To inflict more pain than necessary, to commit atrocities

Just to later heal the bruises with some sumptuosity.

***

I guess this is destiny. Never believed in one, never will,

But looking at you makes me feel like there’s no time to kill.

Be still, my beating heart. Be still.

-JW

Every 5 minutes

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Photo by Blaque X

Every 5 minutes I save your inanity with my insanity in the making,

Every other morning I hate your profanities – as they are backbreaking.

Your dull words with their made up sanctity force my lips to become abrasive.

Should I let you go or keep fissioning while I pretend to embrace it?

What comes next is never a given with you, and it frightens me fiercely.

The next time your bright eyes darken, should I count your shots and wait out the first three?

Should I lay low or shoot back, or fall deeper?

I am not the one to admit the victory of the reaper.

But my personal little deaths always looked like your face.

It’s at the finish line of every track, of every race.

Could have sworn – no one ever told me about the truths you face

Looking for someone to chase at your own pace.

Even 5 years ago I was ready to conquer my two star town for the title,

Even people I barely knew viewed my mind as a funny farm or a spital.

My insides were filled with flammable liquids but I got used to drowning.

Should I spit out the flames now or should I try putting them out

with all the drinks that I’m downing?

You would know the answer to that, love, wouldn’t you?

How come the worst of my demons is the one that is true?

I am not the one to deny that my pride is a fallen virtue.

So why does every time you step on it feel less like a torture

And more like a comically tragic ending to the heroine

Whose emancipation narrators rooted for but they could not fit it in?

***

Every 5 minutes I save my insanity with you mortality in the making,

Every other morning I still love your lethalities – as they are breathtaking.

-JW

Sympathy for the Seventh Sin

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Photo by Burak K

Hey, just wanted to see how you’re doing today.

The last time I called I hated you like a lion

Hates to kill its prey.

I’m not religious but every time someone mentions you, I sit there and pray

Hoping you have the means to move on without me there, every step of the way.

But I don’t know what it means to move on. I get finicky.

My pillow gasps and screams your name right back to me.

The strangers all around this place have branded me as “gutsy” –

If they don’t see my crippling heart, what else do they not see?

Your beaming smile was printed in my memory. Then cut out as a simple clipping.

I must’ve been a monster when I stabbed myself to start the snipping

In order to get every last piece of you away… Too bad I forgot the stitching.

All for nothing. The numbness didn’t last. The insides are still twitching.

Do you even understand what has been done?

How many times the water’s under the bridge

But you once again pull out the gun?

And with my own hand you push me out on the ridge…

Will you have what it takes to pull the trigger? Or will you stand there, evasive?

If offered my tied and bleeding tongue, would you know where to place it?

What a shame it is to fall for someone with a soul of tin,

To have this deadly sympathy for the seventh sin.

What an abject itch it is to live with you, without ever having you.

It was nice to talk but I must go. My empathy is due.

-JW

Love Witch: Vol 2

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Photo by Charry Jin

A distant dawn is spilling light over horizons,

But I’m only waking up when I hear the sound of sirens.

There’s cheap vanilla perfume lingering between our bodies,

Pretending it is sane to look for love in hotel lobbies.

The curtains on our stage remain closed. We’re not ready to ask questions

As you feel deep regret and I’m still fighting my aggressions.

We’re done. After tonight we’re done. The moment sun rises

We’re as good as two strangers who have been through a crisis.

The morning sun hits my face, and I’m ready to flee this absurd scene.

Your eyes meet mine. You also know this has turned obscene.

***

I wonder – if you feel nothing for long enough do you

just hate everybody? Or are you just too tired?

Looking for love seems like too much effort

to put in someone who will never be desired.

But then I meet these people who I shouldn’t touch

as it’s wrong to steal something that’s not yours,

and I sink my teeth in them and I make them blush

so red… But is it my fault they put themselves on all fours?

It is he who adores, it is he who ignores

The warning signs, redder than his cheeks.

But who cares about my heartless Siren’s screak?

I’m the one who made him weak, for weeks,

just like a modern day love witch, so to speak.

Hope they burn me during dawn, as they should.

Hope I reborn as someone from Hollywood

that makes their livelihood by being no good.

-JW

Every Beginning and Bitter End

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Photo by Justin Hamilton

She’s a great listener and a steady support,

Even my granddad calls her “old sport”,

Because she’s a delight and the heart of every crowd –

But I’ll admit, some days she gets a bit loud.

She’s never reckless or selfish, but when she is,

I observe her closely and perform a little analysis,

You know, to see if she’s just lightheaded or hurt

By the many worlds in her head, like a true introvert,

As it’s not usual for her to act out of fear or be ruthless,

And I don’t want her mind to grow painfully fruitless.

She cares a lot, sometimes too much, to be honest,

It’s her kryptonite, forgiving more than is promised,

More than is reasonable. But I secretly love it –

Her passion takes my lowest days to the summit.

It’s tough to make her unreasonable or vague,

Although I sometime do, and she’s embarrassed to break

In front of herself, mostly, not an observer in the street.

That’s just proof of how her mind is unique, yet obsolete.

She never sees the best version of herself in the mirror,

No matter the non-value added wits and the shimmer

She ever so lightly paints her smile with, every other day.

It fascinates me, and some people can’t look away.

I fell for her as soon as she laid her eyes on me,

It seemed like there’s no one else she’d rather see

In that distant night, many Fridays ago, all alone…

It has always made sense — it’s her duty to be,

And mine, ever so blindly,

To atone.

-JW

Overkill // My love

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Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric

Feast away on my defective pieces.

I don’t want them. I don’t care.

It’s enslavement anyways

to be this bare,

to put my soul on the ground where your dirty feet walk,

to put it on the kitchen floor and drag through some broken glass

like it’s sidewalk chalk.

***

Don’t you dare to talk, you ass,

the deep rumbling of your voice is such a bitter pill.

you lost the chance to speak to me when you broke my will,

the one I found shattered by bathroom door all those years ago…

What an overkill,

my love,

that autumn when your smile could make flowers grow

I swore that I’ll never hate, and I’ll take it slow.

But here I am, four hundred days later, crumbled to the bone,

And you’re crushed.

Closer than ever, yet feeling alone,

the adrenaline rush,

it’s long gone.

Goodbye, my friend,

take care, I hope your soulless body finds a home

when you wake up disliking yourself without me,

yet I don’t pick up the phone.

I’ll be far out of zone

where your white lies can’t reach,

where you can’t find

the unmarked headstone.

Alone.

Be Still

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The last time I wrote you I loved you so blind,

you, of all people, not the rest of your kind…

Had my mind in your palm and your teeth in my chest,

god, I was sure that you’re worse than the rest.

A substance I’ve tasted for the very first time.

And for what? So for the rest of my life I can no longer pretend

that I’m fine?

you’re toxic and drinking your poison is painful

But day in and day out you say — I should be grateful

Don’t need the next cigarette, daydream or drink

But it’s numbing my pain so I don’t have to think

About future, or money or castles of gold,

F*ck, I swear — this is how you’re last lover was sold

A fantasy of certainty and safety.

Where is she?

…

Where am I?

Or to quote Placebo –

where is my mind?

The feeling of losing someone so dear is way better

than being lost and only tasting the bitter

Intoxicating poison you raise in my throat…

Let me choke, oh, please, just let me choke.

And let me out of the choke-hold so frozen and evil,

your hands are no longer the good place, their grip so tight

it’s barely legal.

Lethal.

You’re stare reminds of a dusty poison ivy leaf,

The green eyes to kill for — they will kill me in my sleep.

…

Halsey serenaded some crystal green irises in her latest song,

And don’t understand me wrong,

I would still write a ballad about yours,

Filled with late night angst

and swear words…

It would still be yours, imperfect and fragile, and crazy,

Just like the author, irrelevant, hazy,

Teachable, but a slow learner and a quick burner,

The artsy and weird kind, you know, not a head-turner.

She will, however, stay close to your righteous and distant self,

Not because she’s courageous or looking for help.

There’s no help to be found while you bury her fading will,

and yet, she still see’s the emerald eyes and goes –

Be still, my beating hard, be still.

– JW