Interlude and In-betweens

of the not-here's and neither there's

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This is it.

This, this is letting. go.

Full of deep breathes, short-of-breathes, full stop, pauses. Repeat.

This, this is some remnants of you, but mostly of me.

This, this is the point.

Of not wanting leave, but not knowing how to stay.

This is it.

This is really. it.

The tiredness of hanging on seeps into one’s bones. 

You feel your fingers slipping of the cliffs.

You grab on more.

You use every every single ounce of strength you have left.

But the exhilaration comes, of knowing that letting go means no more trying so hard, no more effort.

It’s tempting. It’s so near you can smell it, you can feel it.

The air of freedom.

This is it. I let go.

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Three tears for pain


is when your name no longer rings the same connotation as it once did;


is knowing we are now just friends - however liberating that may be;


is when you second guess everything you once shared, every single detail and wonder if there is any ounce of truth in it;

Three tears for pain, hip hip hurrah!

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The Way We’re Measured


My worry is that what you measure yourself with ends up defining you. You pour yourself into the thing that measures you and it defines you. And I just hope that one day you find out that you’re fuller when you measure yourself in love and people and moments, instead of things, adoration and money.

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The Winter Child


In bright white snow, when everything sleeps.

And hope has left you lonely.

When all you ever remember about summer is how it ended.

I send hope back to you, wherever you are.

I hope you remember all the people you still have time to be.

I hope the little things in your life inspire you to do big things with it.

I hope you remember that summer comes every year and that the sun, is still sweet.

I hope you learn to hope again.

I, still, hope.

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So tell me. Even if the words splash across my face like acid, burning my skin with their finality — I want to feel them. I want to bathe in rejection, if rejection is what awaits me. Yes, I may look at the ground while you talk to me, I may be unable to accept everything that is falling down around me eye-to-eye. But I will be taking it in, finally becoming big enough to live in reality. I would choose a reality of disappointment than a life of insecurity. Being unsure is cheap, it costs nothing, it puts nothing on the table. You deserve my whole self out there, naked, unafraid of the repercussions. And even if your words are a soft, embarrassed “cover yourself up,” I want to hear them.