February 21, 2023

I've been writing poetry for four years now. The first poem I wrote was about someone that I would've done literally anything for. I constantly just wanted to be in his presence. I wrote seventeen poems about that man. In a perfect world, he and I would be friends again. (That's all we ever were - strictly platonic). But I don't know if we can ever get back to that. I remember one night I went to see him after I got off work. He could immediately tell that I had a rough day - I always hated how well he could read me. He pulled me into his lap and let me lay there while he played with my hair. He didn't make me talk about it, he was just there. His presence was always more than enough. Even still, I go to see him constantly because I'm holding onto those small pieces of him, and I always hope that I'll get that version of him again - the version who played with my hair, made sure I was safe when I went on road trips, called me after work to gossip with me, took me to dinner, took me on errands with him, and let me know him.

I told him yesterday that he stopped letting me know him. He seems to think we can trust each other again, but I don't know if we can.