A Writer.


I remember the first time I read something you had written, I was blown out of my mind, I was inspired and I told you that you were the best writer I had ever met. You smiled and said ” it’s because I’m the only writer you’ve ever met”. I didn’t understand at the time why you would never accept my compliments that came from heart. I never understood why you would never publish the beautiful poetry you kept stacked inside your “not worthy drawer”, I thought it was amazing, but for some reason you didn’t.
I never understood why you were always gazing outside when I was talking to you, why it seemed like something was always on your mind. I just used to brush it off and say maybe it was because you were an extremely observant person.
But the day you left, I wrote my first piece, it was short and full of flaws, but at least it was something. I realised why you never accepted compliments because you thought you didn’t deserve them, you never really put a lot of effort into the writing you just held the pen and let the ink do its work, it came easily in flashes and you wrote it down, you didn’t think it was good enough.
Whenever you gave me something you had written it was always about the sky, the stars, the sun, the moon and everything around us, I admired your work but it hurt that you never wrote about me, I wanted you to write me poetry full of promises and other cheesy romantic shit. But now I realise that you were a writer, you had seen the world differently, paid attention to every detail, you were not only a writer you were a dreamer, you knew that your dreams weren’t mine and we couldn’t be together forever, so you never made promises you couldn’t keep, you never gave me false hope, or wrote about my eyes, my hair, the way I made you feel because you knew that the day you left, those words would be all I would have, you knew how strong words are, the impact they would have, you knew I would think that all you had written was a lie and that you were just simply caught up in the moment, so you kept me at arm’s length, always at reach but never too close.
Now I understand that you were so afraid of hurting me, you hurt yourself in the process of saving me.
And today, I am just like you, people wonder why I never accept their compliments, why I never get too close to them, it simply because I am a writer, a dreamer, restless, I’m lost, looking for my missing pieces. And they seem to be scattered all over the world -H

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