it's not first love that hurts.

it's broken hopes, 

ephemeral forevers,

millions of memories

and that last goodbye

that hurt.

it's like painting the sun

but spilling those jars

of teardrops and ruining

the painting all total.

it's not first love that hurts.

it's the aftermath of it that does,

the storm that comes when

the sun has shone too long

and the clouds are too heavy not to

pour on us all.

it's not you who hurt me and

it's not me who hurt you;

it's the fact that we fell apart

and never bothered to 

piece ourselves together,

that you and i, our broken love

could have made a 

beautiful mosaic but didn't -

that fact hurts.

i don't blame my first love 

for all the scars and 

droughts on my heart,

for the sleepless nights

and the feeling of homelessness,

and i hope you don't blame too.

*  *  *  *

i don't know, guys, if my poetry is still worth reading, given how many of my readers have stopped reading, but guess what? i am feeling so happy writing poetry nowadays. it feels less of an obligation, more of growing up, breathing and being alive. 

"your art
is not about how many people
like your work
your art
is about
if your heart likes your work
if your soul likes your work
it's about how honest
you are with yourself
and you
must never
trade honesty
for relatability"

- rupi kaur.

and to those who still haven't left, thank you. from the core of my heart. you are amazing.