Here’s To The Mess We’ve Made

I’ll still love you when the crowds will have forgotten about you, your smile, your dimples.

I will still be around, thinking about how you made me feel during the years, how your words managed to calm me down, how your music fitted in perfectly with every mood I went through or with the things that were happening around me.

I’ll still love you when the stadiums are empty, when the arenas are no longer sold out. I will still be around, because love is bigger than anything else, because the little things will last – not the loud screams or the temporary tears. I will remember the little talks, the tiny sparkle in your eyes, the smirks, the random smiles. Not just the pictures or the sound of it all.

I will desperately keep on loving every single piece of you, from your ankles to your forehead. I’ll remember the printed words, the spoken ones, the sung ones too, and every single smile or insecurity of yours that has ever made itself known.

The emotions will keep running, the absence of air, the adrenaline, and everything else that comes with you. There will always be songs, quotes, books, albums, films, that will somehow represent you, and the mark that you left on me. I will keep writing down the words I didn’t have the time to say to you, or the ones I didn’t manage to. The things I think would have made you laugh, or the ones I think would have made you cry.

Everything I’ve been wanting to share with you for years, every single detail, will not be forgotten. Some kinds of love just don’t disappear: they go around in circles, circles that might last for forever, without an end, always there. With all their bits and bobs, tiny pieces that keep them together, no matter the distance, the silence, or the unknown.

We wasted so many lovely nights, so many beautiful sunsets, with other people, with other hands in ours, other people’s nails on our backs.

We’ll get there, one day, maybe. When the first thing I’ll see waking up will be your green eyes, or your big hands, lost somewhere around the pillow. Or the back of your head, your brown hair. Someday, somehow, we will get there. I refuse to believe that it won’t happen.

We’ll be alright, the nostalgia will finally make sense, the emptiness will be suddenly filled with fullness, days will not be long anymore, the pages of books like Lolita will be read out loud, while sitting on the green grass of a park. Some songs will be sung out loud on a road trip. I’ll remember everything, I’ll make sure we’ll get there. In the mean time, I will not allow myself to forget you. I won’t make you go.