grace is limited 


I used you in the worst way possible — and only realized it at the end, when I came to the conclusion that I was only a substitution for your loss, too. The gravity of grief meant attempting at being together — you called it love. I called it failure.

Nonetheless, I still tried.



Hand break. The pain is always in my fingers — I feel electricity within my joints, the spasms igniting my bones. It starts from my wrists, an almost paralyzing impact; they go limp, drooping a bit above my waist, unresponsive to my emotional effort. My palms sear with an uncontrollable heat, and then the tiny shocks manifest, and spread. It’s almost inevitable to resist. Almost – I say this because pain must be felt.

I felt nothing when I watched you walk away for the first time at the airport.
I didn’t experience it the second time either.
I decided not to stick around for a lucky third’s attempt at charm.

I had my own plane to catch.



After we were done, without hesitation, I whispered into the void of the darkness of the room, the waft of alcohol piercing the oxygen between us, “Are you okay?” I thought you had fallen asleep, but you answered quietly, “yes,” while wrapping your arm around my naked body, kissing my neck one last time before sleep stole your intruding conscious. I shifted away from your padlock embrace, and counted my breath before calmly answering the question directed at myself, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

We had argued about this a couple of weeks prior. Delicately, I had rejected you, I wasn’t in love, and your emotions were too strong for this to be just fun — I wanted so desperately for this to be just fun.

But this arrangement we had couldn’t last; it wasn’t meant to.



A few summers ago I learned to drive with only my left hand, so I could use the other for a variety of reasons, namely: placing my right hand on my ex lover’s thigh, holding her hand within mine, being able to scarf food down — you know, the important stuff. I learned this from my parents. Growing up, I always watched them interlock fingers while we vacationed or had long drives, only letting go to wipe the sweat from their palms, and wondering if they thought that small moment was too long a time to be apart.

Drunk and incoherent, you held onto me, both you arms fully wrapped around my elbow, your head against my shoulder. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes combined on your lips. You tried to kiss me, and I turned away disgusted. We had just had an argument after leaving my friend’s party. So many good moments ruined by our superficial fights, it was what we were used to. This was our understanding of romance — and I, well I wanted more.

Both my hands gripped the steering wheel. I was annoyed to say the least. I hated how much I had to take care of you; I hated how careful I had to be — and maybe that’s why I was so careless with your heart. Maybe that’s why I could never recklessly give you mine.

Or maybe it’s because I never trusted you with it.



Surrounded by some of my closest friends, I was deliciously drunk. We were celebrating a birthday. I am so passionate about birthdays. They’re extraordinarily special to my heart. The symbolism of someone’s personal new year. To start again, to do more, to be better. A new start is always refreshing.

Energetically, I grabbed you from the dance floor, and we disappeared outside, away from my friends’ curious eyes. The breeze was gentle and warm, inviting and friendly, but damp, “this is how summer feels,” I thought.

I grabbed your hand in the parking lot and ushered you into the bed of a stranger’s truck, the hopeless romantic in me emerging as the rain began pouring over us. I was acting impulsive. Both my hands held each side of your cheeks, fingers intertwined with your matted wet hair, and I kissed you, without holding back. I was trying to create a memory for myself, to solidify this feeling, this ever-present nagging euphoria I had become so accustomed to abroad. You kissed me back, fervently. I should have noticed then you were kissing with an uncontrollable feeling.

But I couldn’t save you — I didn’t want to.



My best friend tells me I’m attracted to long distance relationships. I’m not quite sure if he’s right or wrong yet, as I’ve only been in one real relationship, and the majority of it was spent oceans apart, with transatlantic plane tickets in between.

Misunderstanding is the worst distance between two people. I realized this when you moved across the world, and thought I was going to wait for you; that I was going to put my heart on pause for a future I never agreed to.

I hated how much you romanticized me.

I hated how much you put the burden of saving your heart on me.



According to the Bible, seven is the foundation of God, signifying perfection and completeness.

The first time it is referenced, it is in relation towards the creation of the world.
After that, you can find it in almost every book in context of divine perfection.

Which is ironic, since man was supposedly created on the 6th day. Then after, God rested on the 7th.

I don’t believe in any of this like you do.

But I understand God’s sentiment — humans are exhausting.


Berlin, Germany


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