June 28 2019     

a half-assed poem, amended

by Archy Will He

It hurts.

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.

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

I have met death and I want to make things right this life, and I want to be the one who 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 behind meeting you.

But perhaps the reason behind meeting you is so I can 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.

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.

That Wednesday night was very disappointing too. Of course, I had myself to blame as well.

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

It hurts, but it was good, wasn’t it?



[1]: synchronicity (wikipedia.org)

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