5.04 a.m

Last night I wrote you a note
as I painted a beautiful work of art
on my face
my running mascara was the ink
and my pale face was the canvas
and it said that even though
I wanted us to fall in love, I knew
love wouldn't fall for us.

Then I laid in bed,
and thought of you,
and your broken soul
and sad eyes
and I borrowed a little bit
of your sadness and
embraced it for a whole night. 

By the morning,
I thought my wounds would be
turned into scars
and my heart would be fixed
but I was wrong.

And later, I found out that
you're not that sad anymore
or maybe you've just become
too good at hiding it,
and you have actually
found something good
in your life to hold on to.

And then it hit me
that all the sadness that I borrowed
from you
was now entirely mine to keep
because there was no
room for it in your life
anymore.

And I realised that your
promises
are as broken
as you are,
and it upsets me
but I still care.
and you fooled me
but I still care.
and you hurt me
but I still care. 

But darling you should know
that hurt will eventually
turn into anger,
that will turn into sadness,
that will turn into indifference.

And I'm okay with that
because I'm a mess
and I can be so confusing,
and complicated and twisted
that I'm mad at you
for doing exactly
what I asked you to
do. 

It's very easy to be sad
because nothing really lasts.

Tea colds and the sun sets. 
Life ends and we become cold.
People leave and hearts break.

And even tough we can always
make more tea and wait 
for the sun to rise again,
Life will still be over for some,
And people will still have 
somewhere to be,
And hearts will still break
Everyday.

So wether we care about it
or not,
Wether we're the one's hurting
or not,
There's always pain
around us.

Always.

Some of us just chose 
not to notice it.

The morning is for the lovers. 
For those who wake up in each others arms
and plant quiet soft kisses on their warm skin.
It's the time of the day for honest, sleepy voices to wishper
"I love you".

But the night belongs to the poets. 
Those who sit lonely all night and
bleed their souls out into a piece of white paper.
Those who love someone who falls asleep 
in someone else's arms. 
Those who ache. 
Cold hands, heavy heart. 
They can make 2 a.m desperate confessions 
sound like poetry.