hopecore

My poetry professor once said that the thing you don’t want to write about is what you should write about. The lines that are scribbled over in loops of black ink, leaving an indent on the succeeding pages. The thoughts that you wish were fleeting, the blog posts that remain drafted for weeks.

I smile wryly when I see your city in my blog analytics- I don’t think you realise that’s a feature I can see. Don’t stop reading please, I enjoy knowing you’re still there. That you still care. Though I suppose I don’t want to write about the idea of moving on because I know you not only linger in my thoughts, but I’m somewhere in yours too. I hope they’re tender, and treated with a soft smile of clemency. 

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I went out with this guy a month ago, we talked at length about my writings, and I’ve written many more since then. He asked, rather implored-“Please don’t write about me.” And I suppose I understood the fear in it, but still, it threw me. The idea of not being able to express my emotions on paper, having to scratch out any lines from that night, sat on the prom with him. And it’s funny, because though I thought of you, who never minded being part of my words, often now when I write I think of him too. He drew out answers to questions like a thread of a knit sweater, pulling until it hitched on his point. We stayed all night, just talking, driving aimlessly through Galway, swapping stories and asking questions that turned to long-winded debates and slow moving silences. 

But you always liked it, being woven into the lines and spotting details of our days in my prose. With you went so much of me, so though I don’t want to write about it at times, I still will. Maybe you’ll still read. 

I need to find a way to love the differences in others too, the ones who don’t want to be written about. 

Things change. People leave. I could stay in the past forever, but nobody will be waiting there for me.