I remember sitting by the dim light of my small desk lamp, the world outside silent as if holding its breath, while I spilled ink on paper—poems about you. It was a cathartic release, an attempt to make sense of the feelings that tangled my heart in knots. The words flowed, sometimes like a whisper, sometimes like a scream.

The terrible thing wasn’t just the unspoken words between us or the distance that grew like a chasm; it was the realization that my love, deep and consuming, was a solitary journey. The sin, as it pulsed through my veins, was loving you—a sin that lived within me, unreciprocated and haunting.

In the quiet nights that followed our last goodbye, I wrote not about the echoes of what we shared, but about love itself—a concept so pure and idealized, something you were not. My pen moved with a rhythm of longing and loss, etching words that were never meant to reach your eyes but were destined to linger in the corners of my soul.

How vast that sin seemed, as I faced the bitter truth alone in the flickering candlelight. The greatest sin was not in the loving but in the stark, cold silence that returned to me from your direction. My heart had ventured too far into the depths, holding onto a ghost.

These poems, they are relics of a past feeling, a testament to a heart that once beat wildly against the cage of my ribs. They taught me that sometimes, love is a solitary journey, a path one must walk alone with only words as companions. As I look back now, the pages yellowed and the ink faded, I see not just the pain, but the growth. In every line, a lesson; in every verse, a step forward.

And so, the poems remain, tucked away in the drawer of my old wooden desk—whispers of a heart that loved too much, and a soul that grew from the breaking.

“I wrote poems about you, about something terrible.

The sin is within me, the sin is that I loved you.

I wrote about love itself, about something you were not.

The sin was great, the sin was that you did not love.

Continuing from where the ink dried and the pages blurred with tears, I reflect on what my heart truly sought from you. Contrary to the grandeur of passionate novels and the sweeping gestures in movies, my expectations were simple. I wasn’t asking you to give me the world I might have dreamed of, but merely a fraction of your attention, a sliver of your affection.

Yet, as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, I faced a truth more harrowing than any other—the absence of your love was not just an absence; it was a presence, a towering monolith of rejection. The real sin lay not in desire, but in the barren landscape of your emotions towards me.

There was a day, I remember vividly when hope fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird eager to escape. At kilometer zero, the very heart of our city where paths crossed and lives intertwined, I stood waiting. At kilometer zero, I waited for you on the crosswalk, my eyes scanning the sea of faces for yours, my heart pounding in hopeful anticipation.

But as the lights changed and the crowds ebbed and flowed, a stark realization washed over me. You saw me; our eyes met for a fleeting second, and in that brief moment, a lifetime of possibilities extinguished. You chose your path, and it was one that deliberately sidestepped what we could have had.

In the silence that followed, the world seemed stripped of its essence, as if our fractured story had sucked the air from the very sky. Where there once was the possibility of ‘us,’ there remained only the vacuum of your indifference, a suffocating space where even the bravest of hopes could not survive.

These reflections, penned in the solitude of my thoughts, form the narrative of a love that lived silently between the lines of poems and the unspoken words at kilometer zero. They serve as a testament to a heart that learned to beat again, in a world devoid of your presence, finding new rhythms in the prose of recovery and the poetry of letting go.

“I wasn’t asking you to give me the world I might have dreamed of,

But the real sin was tremendous, a shame that you did not love.

At kilometer zero, I waited for you on the crosswalk

But you chose to avoid me, and now there’s no atmosphere left.

As I revisit those somber moments, I acknowledge a crucial turn in my tale of lost love—a turn where I ceased to tread my own path and instead lingered on a trail blazed by your fleeting presence. My mistake was that I stopped my journey for you, halting my own dreams and aspirations in the vain hope that our paths might converge into a single road, leading us toward a shared destiny.

The consequence of this pause was profound and disorienting. Time seemed to split into two parallel streams: the nights, which I live over and over, and the days, which have grown foreign and distant, like lands I’ve heard of but never visited. Each nightfall brings a deluge of memories, each dawn a reminder of the disconnect between what was and what could never be.

In the solitude of my dimly lit room, surrounded by the remnants of what I once thought could be love, I find myself among ghosts of the past. These bottles, once filled with spirits that toasted to our moments together, now stand empty—monuments to nights spent trying to drown the heartache. And your perfume, a scent that once drew me irresistibly towards you, now hangs in the air like a specter, a relentless reminder of what’s lost.

Outside, under the streetlights that flicker like the last beats of a dying heart, my tears find their way to the ground. Tears flow on the asphalt, merging with the rain, indistinguishable in their sorrow. They know the route well, tracing the steps we once walked together, now a solitary pilgrimage in your absence.

In these drawn-out, sleepless nights, you are omnipresent, haunting the corridors of my mind with the echoes of laughter and whispers of what was once whispered in love. No matter how fervently I wish to escape or how deeply I bury those memories, you persist—an indelible mark on the canvas of my psyche.

Through this journey of heartache and healing, my blog has become a confessional, a canvas on which I paint my feelings—a mix of melancholy blues and hopeful hues. Each post, each poem, each tear shed on asphalt, is a step towards reclaiming my path, learning to navigate the days and nights with a heart that, though scarred, beats resiliently towards a future where I am the sole author of my destiny.

“My mistake was that I stopped my journey for you

I live with the nights, the days are already alien to me.

Only this much is left, just empty bottles and your perfume which I haven’t forgotten.

Tears flow on the asphalt, you are only in my mind, in my mind, in my mind.

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