The Art Of Staying

Maybe staying is out of style.

There’s always the next dream girl, the next lover, the next big thing, there’s always the next.

They fuck you and go. They get to know who you are inside and go. You start to feel an ethereal kind of love— and then they go.

You begin to think if there’s something wrong with you, or is it them? Or is this just the natural progression of a relationship in a society that runs away when things get too much?

It’s too simple, it’s too hard, it’s too much, or all of the above— and then you’re drowning underneath sorry’s and silences and the sound of footsteps as they walk away from you.

And the only thing you say is, “Please stay.”

Why do they leave fingerprints on my skin, burnt into me like a reminder that they were here— a reminder that they held my delicate love in their palms, only to drop it.

I only let them have my love because I believed that they would stay. I only let them understand my inner soul because they promised to be gentle.

Maybe staying is an art form that can’t quite be perfected yet. Maybe the ones worth keeping are the ones that can barely be touched by our own fingertips. Maybe it’s easier to just love and leave because it’s the only way we get to feel something and not get hurt. Or maybe there’s too much desire within ourselves that crave just a little bit more.

You walked away when I needed you the most; and I’d love to stay and hold onto you, but I have to keep on moving.