Poetry · Spoken Word

Just words

He said  he would immortalize me with ink on paper,
he would water mark his love with tears
And we would forever be.
He said I would see how much love finds 
and cradles, never about how it breaks and shatters.
He painted us on canvas and wrapped me with it.
He wrote me letters about how much, how deep, how further his love was.
And once he opened up into his ocean
of despair I swear he could  not repair
the pain I had, the past that trapped me
into thinking he was my band aid
that he would fix me.
He believed it, I let him.
He said time nor distance could factor him out
that when the stars adorn the sky,
they would form constellations of us.
He said I was not like the others,
was a flower but fragranced differently
And since I was wilting,
I thought dying in him arms would be enough.
He never mentioned how emotions
can come and go
how pain can come and stay
and nothing like apologies would matter.
He drew me in. Into the depths of him,
into the creases of smiles he often so made
And I settled for that.
But it was not me but for the way he sang
to me, watering the seed of love he planted here.
Whose roots are now hard to pluck out
Because he said the same to another
in the presence of my friends
and it my absence, he decalred his love
The same love he promised me.
And he looked into my eyes
just as when shock traveled within,
“They were just words.”
Remember? He writes
about women not me
about places he would go
but not with me
about feelings not for me
about a love known to him.
He chose paper and pens over me.
Over us.
Over all those ideas.
Over.
It was Over.
But even though I blame him
for luring me in and me letting him.
I knew they were words too.
Because we are writers.
“I love you” is not something new
or different, or meaningful.
Its just words.
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