(This post is in response to the Wednesday Writing Prompt posted by the Rhydin City Tumblr Account on 2/10/16 http://rhydincity.tumblr.com
"He didn?t love me. I had opened up my heart to him, I had done so much for him, I had given him everything. But none of it mattered. He didn?t love me.")
He did not love me as I loved him.
He didn?t love me in the ways I thought love was supposed to be. He did not love me in fireworks and songs. He did not love me in flowers and chocolates. He did not love me in sonnets and waltz. He did not love me like the movies or books.
He loved me with eyes that followed me as I wandered. He loved me with soft smiles and remembering how I take my tea. He loved me with a brush of lips to my temple. He loved me with warm baths and fixed leaky faucets. He loved me with whiskey and cigarette flavored kisses. He loved me with listening ears at two a.m. on the kitchen floor. He loved me in a leather chair and against the windows overlooking the docks. He loved me through my tears and my endless chatter that never made any sense. He loved me with a brush of his fingers to my palm and by holding my shaking hands so I could not hurt myself. He loved me by approving of my whims and giving me the freedom to make mistakes. He loved me by sharing his secrets and pieces of her.
He loved me in ways that I never took note of. He loved me in the ways that are not easily seen but are to be felt. He loved me with his subtle, understated, quiet love. His love is a reflection of him. Why did I ever expect the grandiose from a man who finds comfort and solace in old worn boots and dusty highways? In horizons and rusted metal. In silence and the haze of smoke.
He did not love me the way I thought I wanted him to love me.
He did not love me as I loved him.
He did not love me in the ways I thought I ought to be loved.
He did not love me like others love one another.
He loved me the way only he could.
All this time all I could think was, he never loved me. If he loved me, he wouldn?t have let me go. If he loved me, he would have fought. If he loved me?
If?
If?
If?
I wish I could be loved again, in all the ways that he did not love me.
"He didn?t love me. I had opened up my heart to him, I had done so much for him, I had given him everything. But none of it mattered. He didn?t love me.")
He did not love me as I loved him.
He didn?t love me in the ways I thought love was supposed to be. He did not love me in fireworks and songs. He did not love me in flowers and chocolates. He did not love me in sonnets and waltz. He did not love me like the movies or books.
He loved me with eyes that followed me as I wandered. He loved me with soft smiles and remembering how I take my tea. He loved me with a brush of lips to my temple. He loved me with warm baths and fixed leaky faucets. He loved me with whiskey and cigarette flavored kisses. He loved me with listening ears at two a.m. on the kitchen floor. He loved me in a leather chair and against the windows overlooking the docks. He loved me through my tears and my endless chatter that never made any sense. He loved me with a brush of his fingers to my palm and by holding my shaking hands so I could not hurt myself. He loved me by approving of my whims and giving me the freedom to make mistakes. He loved me by sharing his secrets and pieces of her.
He loved me in ways that I never took note of. He loved me in the ways that are not easily seen but are to be felt. He loved me with his subtle, understated, quiet love. His love is a reflection of him. Why did I ever expect the grandiose from a man who finds comfort and solace in old worn boots and dusty highways? In horizons and rusted metal. In silence and the haze of smoke.
He did not love me the way I thought I wanted him to love me.
He did not love me as I loved him.
He did not love me in the ways I thought I ought to be loved.
He did not love me like others love one another.
He loved me the way only he could.
All this time all I could think was, he never loved me. If he loved me, he wouldn?t have let me go. If he loved me, he would have fought. If he loved me?
If?
If?
If?
I wish I could be loved again, in all the ways that he did not love me.