I don’t write much about love.

Well I do, but not the good kind.

Or, maybe I don’t. Maybe none of this is love anyway.

If people are consistently breaking you down, could that be what the movies are all about?

I think love is finding that person. The one who makes you realize your mess has made sense all along. A person who makes your flaws feel safe. You don’t have to spend so much time worrying about if you are doing things right or saying the wrong thing.

But you spend so much time worrying. Worrying if they are okay, can I be more, can we do more? Love is finding the person who makes you want to throw away every mistake you’ve ever made and turn into the best version of yourself.

Love is about never being told loving you is settling.

If any of this is love, the butterflies are cool but all the bullshit that comes next is just really not for me.


Coffee. I’m sitting here drinking my morning cup, taking in the dark of my apartment while the sun peaks through the blinds. It’s Saturday morning and I’m up and functional before most, mind racing with thoughts of how things go wrong. In a city that never sleeps, I am wide awake.

Candles. Burning. The flicker of the flame makes the otherwise dark room glow. Air filled with scents of vanilla and smoke. I am calm.

You. Thoughts of how you treated me, affectionate one moment and distant the next. Gone in the blink of an eye. How do people do that? Disappear without warning or notice? This is not the first time, I am sure it won’t be the last. To have so little respect or concern for a person you spent hours pouring your heart out to, what made this so bad?

Me. I beat myself up. What did I do, what is wrong with me? Why am I so hard to love? Maybe I was not your cup of coffee. Maybe the connection was one sided. But still, you said you missed my voice. Said you wanted more. Then you were gone faster then you came. And maybe I was not your cup of coffee, but I am one damn good cup.