An Argentine Met a French Man

Why is it that the best stories are the ones we suffer in?

There is nothing more relentless than missing someone you don’t know.

When plans fail, our minds will fill the gaps with stories we haven’t even lived.

I saw you that night, I saw those eyes and they weren’t lying, why are you now?

You put an ocean between us and left me wondering, I can work with an ocean but not with silence.

I sit and I wonder who you are, and then my mind reminds me that I have no way of knowing.

While your mouth had a cigarette, your eyes had me.

How can you not come back to me, how are you able to forget what happened?

The fear of opening up to you went away, just to be reborn when you didn’t write.

I knew you were an asshole, you even smelled like on.

You faked the details, just enough so I wouldn’t have to lie.

I may have lied, exaggerated, but it was all for you. I wanted mystery, I wanted passion, and you smelled like it.

How is your head not killing you with the possibility of what we could have been?

You got me so used to those 11 AM morning texts that staring at my silent phone hurts.

You left today. You vaguely told me that. As if I didn’t need anything else.

When I suffer I am the most creative. Was that your point?

How can you be satisfied with what was?

This is the story of a comfort zone being tore down while its linked ego burnt.

I find beauty in vulnerability, you should have known that the moment I showed you mine it would mean something.

Are you even coming back? Wouldn’t that be nice to know.

Met you knowing where I met you, and I still expected you to be someone else.

I wore the skin and went into the pool of sharks expecting you to take it off.

A beautiful story, which unraveled in a romantic three-day lie.

If you take the time to make me intrigued, you should take the time to make me bored.

I want you, why can’t it be enough.

I have to let you go, maybe the three day adventure was my lesson, and all I want is a repeat.

The worse part is that I know the story is not over, but I can’t go back to you after what you did.

I should erase our conversation, but I hold on to that first message were you started faking it.

How dare you use the moon, my moon?

You begged for me to stay, to be yours, but not like this.

You said my dress felt like touching my skin, how would you know? You didn’t even stay long enough to find out.

You knew my fears, you empathized with them, and then you used them against me.

I’ll find another one like you, but you will always linger in me.

I resent you for creating a void in me, now whatever similarity I find in someone else will be a mirror of what you showed me.

You mentioned my family, as if you wanted to be in it.

You projected, you moved fast, and then you stopped.

Instead of working I’m writing about you, I write about you so my mind can take a break from thinking of you.

Ex lovers are texting me, as if they know that you’re not.

I know you’re clearly replaceable, do you?

You spoke those French words in the middle of the night as if I didn’t understand.

Maybe you had to go away, maybe not knowing is better than knowing you truly.

Perhaps as you faked it, you showed me the real you, perhaps I got the best part of you in those three days and after that I wouldn’t have liked you.

Did you try and fake it enough so that I would not notice your suffering?

I bought something on the 21st, because we had a date and somehow that meant something.

Bought a moon ring on the first day we spent together, a memento to remind me that I liked you and needed to remember that day.

I look down at the ring and I see you, smoking probably, but you in the end.

Can I pop into your head for a moment?

I always imagine that when we die we get to replay every scene in our life just to understand perspective.

Is perspective what damaged us?

I wish you knew how infatuated you had me.

The only reason why I want you to come back now is because I’m afraid you’ll leave me with time.

I’m scared of time; it’s playing against us right now, making me feel further from you.

I miss your eyes, because while you tell me you are made out of stone, they tell me otherwise.

Never seen eyes so sincere. I’m sure mine spread fear, while yours spread comfort.

I closed myself again today, it was the only way I wouldn’t miss you.

You say you have no feelings, I said the same thing. It’s not true, did you lie too?

I felt you and you felt me, there is so much more of me I want to show you. Why wont you let me?

I write this to forget you, to remind myself that I found your eyes, but I’m beginning to look for others.

The silence continues so we won't anymore.

What if I run into you one day? Will you remember?

The details are now fading.

I’m actually losing the inspiration now; this may be how one forgets someone.

Wrote about love and loss and now I feel neither, I might just be over you.

I guess it took a thousand words to forget why I started writing.

Au revoir.