I am not him.
I am not his broken promises or his cigarette smoke.
I am not even his poems of which I have wrote.
There is a fierce passion in my heart.
There is love in my bloodstream.
I harvest it.
I utilize it.
The world is a weight on his shoulders, but I hold it in the palm of my hands.
His intrigue isn’t nearly as powerful as the mystery in my mirror, and I will not succumb to being a reflection of his qualities.
I’m tired of having my conscious fill me with false hope when it’s 2am and I’m dreaming of a better you.
You have a lot of growing to do.
And so do I.
It’d be ridiculous to grow together when we are two separate souls,
separate ideas and separate goals.
Maybe you’ll come around when we’ve learnt to love ourselves like the other never could.
Even if you don’t,
I’ll have me.
I’ll always have the pleasure of my own company.
-to him, whoever he may be
By Lindsay Olivieri
Hanna 