To the man who describes himself as a broken-hearted hero,
I thought love was jealous, fragile, and painful. I thought everyone who loved deeply, did so complicatedly.
Since you, I’ve discovered love through the purest of sources: friendship and kindness.
The kind of love that makes me feel seen. The kind of love that makes me feel heard.
It’s that kind of familial love I didn’t realize I already knew, and had no idea I would someday gain even more of.
Because of what I’ve learned since you, I was ready for him. To see him. To hear him. To love him.
I’m thankful for where my path has brought me. I hope you can say the same.
The confident queen who walked away
You took my compliment as an insult, and for that I must explain: when I say I love you the way I love women, it’s the highest compliment I can offer.
I know these women.
I know their hearts.
I trust their intentions.
I trust their judgement.
Telling you I love you the way I love my women, it says
I know you.
I know your heart.
I trust your intentions.
I trust your judgement.
The men in my life come and go. Though I hold their friendships dear to my heart, the ties always tend to fade.
The women, they’re for life.
Pick any one of them, and I can honestly say there will never be another her.
Just as there will now never be another you.
I tell you I love you the way I love my women, because it’s honest and because it’s true.
It’s funny how my memories of you can spill onto a piece of paper in a series of letters; foreign to the unlearned, yet just as beautiful.
But I scrawl them out on whatever sits in front of me, as if hesitating for one more second would erase you from my mind.
The shape of your bones drip with blue ink on a crumpled up newspaper that I’ve been meaning to throw away for weeks.
The curve of your smile and the softness in your eyes engraved in the floor at the bottom of the staircase after I lost the strength to climb them. Or maybe I lost the will to climb to an empty room.
I can see the curls of your hair dancing off your shoulders as you tiptoe across the room staining the couch with your favorite color of nail polish.
Your pale white skin and the constellations of freckles on your stomach defaces every mirror I’ve looked into because I’d rather see that than see the hallow eyes and sunken cheeks pretending to be me.
And there, chiseled into the mantle where the dust surrounded old picture frames, is the makeshift novel of how your sharp breaths pierce my ear when I plant my lips on your collar bone.
I can see your nimble hands unperched from your hips as they reach out for mine scribbled across the doorway from the day I thought I could leave, but just kept waiting for you to follow.
It’s funny how all of these memories of you can spill out and be just as beautiful.
And guess what…she LOVED it.
“FLUID is a gritty interactive novel that explores the nature of free will, through both the large story of a cosmic battle between good and evil, and the small story of two teenagers yearning for connection in a greedy, manipulative world.”
Have you ever read a book and forgotten that it’s not real life and you don’t actually know the characters? …you’re basically Gilmore Girl level acquainted with the characters, and you’re rooting for them/with them?
That’s how “fluid” was for me, and like all things I’m obsessed with…I share it with the masses! I’m not going to go into too much detail, because the author does a much better job at summarizing it than I ever could.
It’s an adult interactive book, so check it out on a digital platform (iBooks, nook, etc.) I also highly recommend you head over to his website. You can get more information about it there.
I have read it three times and I’m consistently in love with the content in this book… It’s a must-read!
Oh, and just as a fantastic side note: you can stalk the author on Instagram (I already do, regularly): @TravisSentell -not only is he a phenomenal writer, but he takes beautiful photos of his travels! Oh, and he’s a total silver fox with gorgeous blue eyes…so there’s that. 😉
To Be Continued.
I made a list of all the words I should have said to you.
They turned into a book; the kind of book that you can read over and over, and still learn something new.
But there was a certain way the words looked to me every night.
They spelled out something sinister, and somehow never looked quite right.
They would stare me in the face and mock me for not understanding them.
And as soon as I’d start to figure it out, they would mix themselves up again.
The story never changes though.
It’s always the story of me and you, and all the things we’d never make it through.
And I guess somehow, before I even wrote it, I always knew.
I’ve memorized the lines but can’t quite figure out what to do.
When my arms reach out, grabbing nothing but air as if the emptiness is trying to give me a clue.
When I stop breathing to try and hear your heartbeat just once more, until my body starts to turn blue.
My God, what am I supposed to do when my sheets no longer smell like you?
She quietly died in a room where no one had bothered to change the calendar in for five years.
It was a decision she had made a few months before but never found the courage to go through with. That was largely in part of her never being alone.
Before then, I had left her side only once. It was something I deeply regretted but learned to forget over time.
I knew how much it hurt, but she said, “The heart heals because it’s made to take chances.” That never made me feel better, but it did give me a reason to breathe.
But by and by, the air grew thin until we found ourselves struggling to find enough for the both of us again. Or maybe she was just choosing not to take her share.
Fearing suffocation, or perhaps embracing the outcome more than she thought possible, she secluded herself to a small box to keep her safe from me. Or so I thought.
As the days passed, I couldn’t bear the stinging absence of her lips on mine. I couldn’t stand the sight of her not standing next to me, or the feeling of my fingers being able to touch in the void that her’s once filled.
So I found her there, her heart not quite healed but unable to break ever again.
Her lifeless lips with no intention to ever touch mine; her limp body with no means of standing next to me; her fingers unable to place themselves in the void they once filled.
She quietly died in a room where no one had even bothered to change the calendar in for five years.
Kevin now has his own corner on Basic&Bipolar. Enjoy his beautiful words below, and under the menu option “It’s All Copacetic“.
I can hardly remember the way you tossed your hair; something I’ve studied on numerous occasions. I catch glimpses now and again as trees reach out and swing their branches in the wind. And the wind still carries your scent, following me everywhere I go, urging me to look back and see you standing there. But I still have trouble remembering the way you tossed your hair.
I can hardly relive the flashbacks of your lips pressing tightly together and melting away from mine only to tease; like a newly blossomed rosebud opening for the bees and then withering away the second it slips in. Then hunger ensues; hunger for your lips. But I still have trouble reliving those flashbacks.
I can hardly feel your hands. I imagine they would be lost in mine, our fingers intertwined like the mossy overhang on our front porch door. Our front door, it creaked slightly when you crept in, opening it slowly to soften the sound.
Oh, I can hardly recall the sound! The sound of your voice as it trembles beneath a whisper, forcing out those words. And I’m still holding onto those words. You said that if I left there’s no way you’d survive.
Then you left…so, are you still alive? I can hardly recall.