5 reasons why I must leave you… even though you say you love me

A poet’s decision

1. Your love is largely understated

As n when you can, a time available kinda affair. There’s a slot for me. Which I compliantly fit into. Moments of recluse, nothingness, peace of mind or what you term as when, ‘I’m free.’ Which is further filtered to the time you actually get after you unwind, rest n relax — what do you call that? Oh! Yes… the quintessential, I need my space! Obviously, I therefore am mostly out of sight and out of mind as let’s face it, in today’s times firstly those moments of solitary serenity are few and far between. Add to it the sifting process and you’ve bestowed me with a few minutes of an afterthought before the manic of life takes over again.

As a result my love is mostly overstated.

Frequent and frantically insecure attempts to keep me on your mind. Regardless of whether I’m free or not. I make the time. Take the time to stop in the dead middle, (beginning or end) of any kinda day. Just to let you know that I exist. We exist. Hoping to catch you in your ‘free time.’ 

Other times, unconsciously trying to show by example that love is beyond the right time. It’s about being there every time. Anytime. Through all times. It is in fact in the chaos of life that love can calm the most. As well as provide the magical thrill to an otherwise mundane day. 

Like a sugar rush, love has super powers.

Yet mine seems like an overdose. One which you dodge and regulate. I’m drained off my mojo. 

As a poet this is an essential ingredient of my survival.

2. Your valid reasons reek of missing inclination.

To all of your 101 reasons not to call, text or meet me all I can say is when there is a will, there is a way. 

Furthermore, when there is a will, lovers make a way. 

Love is the spur. The medal at the end of the finish line. Lovers don’t only meet to stop and smell the roses. They run the obstacle race, the triathlon, the 100m dash, whatever it takes to stay together, close at heel, soul to soul. 

As a result your explanations are often met with over the top emotional outbursts. 

Effort. Initiative. Attention. Validation. Prioritization. Mere reciprocity are the words that come to mind. 

And after having been with you through thick and thin. Walked the extra mile. Bent backwards. And forwards. And in all ways, always reliable…

Ready. 

On call. 

On text. 

On eye contact. 

On instinct. 

On a vibe.

On a sixth sense

Enough. No more. I cannot omit pieces of me to make you comfortable. Like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s ok. When it’s clearly not. After years of having done this and living with no expectations, I now have forgotten how to respond. I simply react. I cry. I snap. I yell, shout and scream. I dramatize. I patronize. 

Above all, I realize.

I realize — this — this is not me. Like a fish out of water, I feel out of character. 

This is not my truth. 

As a poet my truth is my triumph. My truism is my strength — my USP. 

3. Your words fall short.

Words are magical. They can as well make you feel elated, appreciated, cherished and loved mostly in as little as just three words. 

Yet, there are none between us. No cliché words. No creative declarations. No candid affection. No dirty talk, no pure revelations. 

So typically mine as well go unrecognized. No reply. While I muse the shit out of you — you remain unimpressed. Uninterested. And indifferent. 

Occasionally your stingy me too’s to my abundant I love you’s make intimate conversations. Apart from that my love life is generally a monologue. 

As a result I have none left.

Off late, I have nothing to say. I have resigned to a silent death. A deadly silence. Trapped in muteness, I find myself at a loss for words. Like my words don’t matter. Like I don’t matter. 

As a poet, I cannot let this happen. It’s only words. Words are all I have. 

4. Your actions speak louder than your words.

Missing in words. Acceptable. Missing in action too. Unacceptable. 

Your random appearances between your constant disappearances are exhausting. You are just never there when I want to share my dreams, my life or just my day. The pining for you, the aching, wanting, waiting has slowly but surely been replaced with an emptiness on some days. And bitterness on others. Your presence now only highlights your absence. Like just when I get used to living without you, there you are, a reminder of a remnant love I want to learn to live without. 

Your white lies, lame excuses, lack of enthusiasm to make amends and my willingness to believe anything you say just to save the day is pitiful. Inconsistency defines our relationship. It plays mind games. Messes with my heart. I cannot function normally.

As a result I have trust issues.

Roses are no longer red. They carry a different hue. And violets are far from blue. Love is a myth — never true. 

I now doubt everything you say, do, hell I even doubt my thoughts, my beliefs, my ability to love and be loved. 

As a poet I am in love with love. Transcendental love. There is a fine line between reality and fantasy. I live both with conviction. I can walk the line for you and soar the clouds with you.

You take away either and you have left me with a broken identity and a damaged soul.

5. Your love is mediocre

There are too many mediocre things in life. Just average. Our love cannot be one of them. 

I cannot live with ordinary. I crave extra ordinary. I never wanted something good or good enough. Rational. Practical. I want crazy. A can’t sleep, can’t breathe, can’t live without your love kinda feeling. 

I want your whole life, I want to give you all of my lifetimes.

I want butterflies in my stomach and fire in your belly. I want to then be water and flow into you. Douse you with desire. Melt into your hard spots. Soften you, fill you up with tenderness until we breathe love like we breathe air.

But this is merely poetry, I hear you say. 

As a result my madness remains misunderstood.

You see the poetry, do you not see the poet? 

For one is the echo of the other. Like conjoint twins, we co exist. 

Regardless of you then I choose to keep my madness. I’ll stay with it, hang on to it and hold on to it for dear life.

This craziness is what keeps me alive.

As a poet that is why I must leave you. Consider me gone.