Books about you.

Articles, imaginary letters, long messages, songs stuck in my head, choreographies, poetry. I could go on and on talking and writing and moving to express everything I feel and think about you. Positive and negative, I could write books. It still wouldn't be enough. Every day I discover something new about this. On my way to recover from the chaos you caused in my life I stumble and fall back in your arms; some days you feel like the home I've been craving to come back to, others like a prison I'm desperately trying to escape from.

It's the chemical reactions that occur within my body and mind when you touch me, the way I forget about the world when you hug me and how everything bad fades away and seems minor when we kiss. No one has ever inspired me to create all forms of art more than you did. Even in the beginning, when everything was fun and games, I felt the need to talk about it, it was and, sadly, still is bigger than me or anything I've experienced emotionally so far.

My friends are sick and tired of listening to our drama and my heart is exhausted from trying so hard to let go of you. During my sober moments I find my mind blurred and confused, indecisive. I pour alcohol inside my body to help it heal from the pain of your absence but it only makes it worse.

Life imitates art, so as the song goes: if our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love's insanity why are you my clarity?

Athina, x.