I was 14 and madly in love for the first time. He was 21. He made me suddenly, unaccustomedly beautiful with his kisses and mix tapes. During the year of elation and longing, he never mentioned that he had a girlfriend who lived across the street.
That's point of writing: building what you need, right?
Someone Should Write Me a Love Poem but I'm Stuck Doing It Myself
I write to make sense of things that dont make sense to me.
There is nothing going on. I took nothing you wanted. You can't have it back.
I think that hope is the act of continuing in the face of the truth.