Maximilian

“6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
Blurred out lines
from hangovers
to coffee
Another vagabond
lost to love.

4am alone and on my way.
These are my finest moments.
I scrub my skin
to rid me from
you
and I still don’t know why I cried.
It was just something in the way you took my heart and rearranged my insides and I couldn’t recognise the emptiness you left me with when you were done. Maybe you thought my insides would fit better this way, look better this way, to you and us and all the rest.
But then you must have changed your mind
or made a wrong
because why did you
leave?

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
I replace cafés with crowded bars and empty roads with broken bottles
and this town is healing me slowly but still not slow or fast enough because there’s no right way to do this.
There is no right way to do this.

There is no right way to do this.”
― Charlotte Eriksson, Another Vagabond Lost To Love: Berlin Stories on Leaving & Arriving

“Harry Potter isn’t real? Oh no! Wait, wait, what do you mean by real? Is this video blog real? Am I real if you can see me and hear me, but only through the internet? Are you real if I can read your comment but I don’t know who you are or what your name is or where you’re from or what you look like or how old you are? I know all of those things about Harry Potter. Maybe Harry Potter’s real and you’re not.”
― John Green

“Oh, I wouldn't mind, Hazel Grace. It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you.”
― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

“You’re thinking, maybe it would be easier to let it slip
let it go
say ”I give up” one last time and give him a sad smile.
You’re thinking
it shouldn’t be this hard,
shouldn’t be this dark,
thinking
love could flow easily with no holding back
and you’ve seen others find their match and build something great
together,
of each other,
like two halves fitting perfectly and now they achieve great things
one by one, always together, and it seems grand.
But you love him. Love him like a black stone in your chest you couldn’t live without because it fits in there. Makes you who you are and the thought of him gone—no more—makes your chest tighten up and
maybe this is your fairytale. Maybe this is your castle.

You could get it all on a shiny piece of glass with wooden stools and a neverending blooming garden
but that’s not yours. This is yours. The cracks and the faults,
the ugly words in the winter
walking home alone and angry
but falling asleep thinking you love him.
This is your fairy tale.
The quiet in the hallway, wishing for him to turn around, tell you to stay, tell you to please don’t go I need you
like you need me
and maybe it’s not a Jane Austen novel but this is your novel and
your castle
and you can run from it your whole life but this is here
in front of you.
Maybe nurture it?
Sweet girl, maybe close the world off and look at him for an hour
or two.
This is your fairy.
It ain’t perfect and it ain’t honey sweet with roses on the bed.
It’s real and raw and ugly at times. But this is your love.
Don’t throw it away searching for someone else’s love. Don’t be greedy. Instead, shelter it. Protect it. Capture every second of easy, pull through every storm of hardship. And when you can, look at him, lying next to you, trusting you not to harm him. Trusting you not to go.
Be someone’s someone for someone.
Be that someone for him.

That’s your fairy tale. This is your castle.
Now move in. Build a home. Build a house. Build a safety around things you love.
It’s yours if you make it so.

Welcome home, sweet girl, it will be all be fine.”
― Charlotte Eriksson