June 28 2019      3min read     

a half-assed poem, amended

by Archy Will He

It hurts because I know I will never meet someone like you again.

You are the woman I would love to grow old with.

I know you care about me.

I know I won’t want to meet you again, despite how much you adore me.

I have met death many times and I want to make things right this life, and I want to be the one that makes things right in your life.

I know things will not be so surreal with the next girl (or guy that smells nice), unless I get extremely lucky, which is statistically improbable and it will be in a different setting and I am growing old and it will be new memories and it will not be you.

It hurts because deep down I know I have self-deceptive tendencies and tend to romanticise things too much.

I believe in synchronizität[1] and I believe there is a reason I met you.

But perhaps the reason I met you is to immerse myself in this beautiful feeling of hurt. So I will be wiser. So I can become a psychopath, or an artist, and make a million dollar. And then forget about your name.

It hurts because I really like you as a friend and I believe the connection we have made is something special that will grow into something really beautiful. And I have to cut this connection right now so that I can focus on work, instead of getting distracted because you are a fucking enchantress. And I value my work.

I know I won’t want to meet you again, despite how much I enjoyed the sophisticated side of you.

The clumsy side of you is super cute too, though I have fallen for the sophistication and the sadness in your eyes.

It is disappointing that the men who you slept with that I have met were much less sophisticated than you.

In that Wednesday night I didn’t want to be a cockblock and went drinking alone so you could have sex with this dude with a THC vaporizer that has been hitting on you because I wanted you to have a great night with him, unlike the other nights where I just disarmed men that approached you and made them feel sad about their lives.

Despite owning a THC vaporizer, this dude was not aware of the emerging billion dollar weed tech industry. And he looked like he’s in his early thirty or something. I felt pity for him.

But it turned out you didn’t have a great night with this dude. And perhaps I could have slept with you instead. What a bummer.

It hurts because a part of me loved and cared about you in some ambiguous and platonic sense. Or maybe I just felt pity for you as well.

Deep down I knew I needed to give you a half-assed confession and then get rejected so I could move on with life. So that I will be less prone to developing emotional attachment to mythical creatures like you. So that I can mutilate romanticism the way romanticism mutilates my pancreas.

And you reminded me so much of my ex. That’s the part where it hurts the most, I guess.

[1]: synchronicity (wikipedia.org)

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