#excerptsfromthebookillneverwrite

[cynic-al]

—Caramel.

tarahroma

[epeo1atry]

"But how can you still like me? I look nothing like those girls in the magazine. I have stretch marks and a muffin top. I haven't seen my thigh gap in years and I definitely weigh more than you." She said, fighting back insecurities that had been hidden from him until now. Her eyes showed a sadness he hadn't seen from her before. He pulled her into his lap and kissed her cheek tenderly. "I thought you realized that's not what I want." He said in almost a whisper. "I want to girl that asks me to teach her how to look at art critically. The one who didn't mind walking down the street with all the little art studios in the cold, because she demanded the lessons start as soon as possible. I want the girl who remembered my favorite color from our first date, and wore her blue colored jacket to our second date just to make me smile. The one who snooped around my room and took ten minutes to look through my bookshelf to see what my taste in books was. "I want that girl. I want her smile and her quirks and her body that I can't get enough off. You're right that you don't look anything like those girls. You look so much fucking better."

excerpts from the book i’ll never write

[cynic-al]

[cynic-al]

Love knows no certainty.

I can split my heart open to someone who can promise me a world of serene but he could still wake up one day and want what he had before me. The way it would sting would be nothing short of a lump in my throat- words i may not be able to spit out due to sheer disbelief of the tragedy that I once again, willingly allowed to happen. I can get a new cut, wear red often, paint my toes the color he most wants- none of external efforts could fool love into playing settlement.

The roaring of the past is a distant, but violent sound. There is nothing in me or of within my abilities that could silent the echoing of what he has done before me- of how deep of an impact his past lover has engraved in his soul. My lover has loved some other before me. Why must it be so hard to accept it as just truth and go? I am less insecure when I see my reflection as an equal to my being. But humans are flawed and I see myself rather believing in the statements from the mind than of what I know best of the self. His previous lover is no less of a woman than I am- capable of nurturing, caring, creating a home to nestle his love in. How different could I be?

Maybe this is why people, despite all efforts, end up leaving the one they stood at the altar with. Because the thought of uncertainty has hung loose on their very shoulders replacing what they have grown to create.

tarahroma.

[cynic-al]

My dear, are you seeing this? When I saw you again, my heart skipped a beat.

Your hair looks so different. Too close, yet we were undeniably distant.

Yes, I dislike your girlfriend. When I danced with you that one night I knew: this is it. You and I. We and these steps fall so naturally. You still smell the same way as you did when I left you. When I thought I had at least two more flights back to see you. To hold you the same way as you used to. Sweet and raw, is what I mostly remember. You know some days; I wish we had chosen to go further.

A petite love I still cling unto. I, on your arms and I could subside into fluidity and peace and a thousand more laughters I wish I could still share with you. Our past is chattering: this is what you lost when you let go. Maybe I just wanted more time. Maybe. Certainly.

Why wasn’t it us? I can’t remember. A love half known, unbent.  

How cruel.

[cynic-al]

Yeah, but isn’t this the way. You call first and I immediately say I'm sorry. the paint across my room is fading. I say, “he’s just going through a tough time,” “his mom knows no better than picking out his bad to look good” yet you confessed of deleting my number the morning after. Yet you forgot all that ive done for you like you washed it all off under your sink. I tell my sisters our story and she says: you still hurt for him don’t you and you blame yourself for the wrong that he’s unguilty of doing. She says: he only remembers you when he’s alone.  

You show up wanting to leave. I never understood why people shoot bullets on the wrong target and call someone else foolish. I never understand why people are angry when you’re on your last step out my door. I get it, you take my soft spots and play with it and put it high up on an endless loop- I've never really complained. I call the mess I'm in, bittersweet- so, why should I?  

My friend asks: why shouldn’t you keep trying? Why bother waiting? You know you mean nothing more than a forgotten picture. So I smash the good and sucked the marrow of bad and kept calling pain home because isnt a good sore better than feeling nothing? I know, I know, i’m hopeless. Keeping you still means being left the next morning.  

I say I don’t know. I say what’s with the search.  

But honestly, when I miss you enough, even strangers appear to look like you.  is it too wrong to still see you ideal?

So isn’t this the way. I wake up and you’re no longer responding.

isnt this really the way?

I am just so good at the rotting.  

tarahroma.

[cynic-al]

but what am i even supposed to say? your sweater from 2 years ago no longer smells like you. i doubt you even kept those that i left for you. so maybe you’re out right now. holding the one you replaced me over. maybe you no longer even remember, the things i still keep reminding myself about. the way your eyes would plead to take me home. the sound of your laughter and how that would have annoyed me by now. i know you know me better than someone who still writes details of what no longer matters. but i guess it’s just me who no longer know what even stands better. how we’re not who we used to be. or how i still wish we were.

—call me sometime, will you?

tarahroma.

[cynic-al]

i wonder how it feels

to feel

again.

to begin again.

to learn again.

to know, again.

to start from scratch.

to re-start, to re-do.

or maybe undo.

to hear how my name sounds like

the first time someone else says it.

and to make it feel like it belongs.

—the story is a prologue.

tarahroma.