This is art. Poetry that I have made in complete seriousness, yet with words that have been stripped of anything that covered the truth. All you need to do is read between the lines.
Maybe one day I’ll look back and not even remember how much I used to think about you, maybe I’ll only remember the good bits, the bit where you’re one of my friends, where life is a bed of roses and we are the reddest, brightest petals. Maybe I won’t remember how you are the last thing that goes through my mind every night. I won’t remember how I’m consumed by a feeling I can only visually describe as a flutter of white feathers from fluffy pillows exploding when I talk to you. Maybe I won’t remember staying up on Saturday nights expecting your call or lying on the cold marble floor outside my bedroom only to talk to you. I probably won’t remember that you told me you wanted to talk to me every time you felt sad. And I definitely won’t remember how much I wanted to hug you and hold your hand every time I was with you. Yes I am biased and yes I feel something. I don’t know what it is and I don’t need to name it either. Not naming it means I will probably definitely not remember it years later. Maybe. Hopefully. Because even though it has no name, it has an adjective: “unrequited”, and I can’t let future me remember an insanely intense feeling only as being unrequited.