Half An Hour Before Midnight

"It's hard to read you," you said.

It was the first time we ended the day half an hour before midnight. A year ago. You sat in front of me and I smiled only several inches away just to make sure I wouldn't fall, as your words were enough to make you as my next home.

You were wearing a blue shirt, your favorite color. I held myself not to laugh too many times at your silly jokes and I counted each minute which passed, memorizing each second I was able to see your pair of eyes.

I was afraid. You were saying some words and you leaned on your chair like nothing happened. I was building walls high enough from within, knowing that you were one of those people who might teared it down effortlessly.

"Me? Hard to read? No, not at all," I said. 

Then, our topic changed. So did my heart. 

Little did he know, I was made of childhood fairy tales but without Prince Charming who always saved the day as I knew for sure that no one will ever save me but myself. As I grew up, I was made of poetry which I wrote from the ruins of my loved ones who once built a steady home within myself and they left me behind with some broken windows and an open door.

I was shattered here and there as my collection of poetry was made out of those broken promises or broken trusts. It was fun to find some words which rhymed with each other as I got lost to find the perfect phrases just to forget how painful it was to have a broken heart. 

That night, I knew for sure that his name would fit perfectly behind the words which I would write for the next months ahead.   

I knew for sure that I lied to you that night. I wouldn't let you read me further into the story which I hid on the shelf, knowing that you were already standing on the porch and I would let the door open even long before you had the intention to knock it three times. I wouldn't let you read me. I wouldn't let you in after those raging storms hit me hard and cracked my window open at 2 AM.

Since then, I know for sure that I don't have to peek through the window to spot you. I just know that you're always there, standing on the porch while I'm collecting some words and phrases to define who you truly are instead of letting you in.

I hope, I will have another day when we end it half an hour before midnight. And when that day comes, before we say goodbye, I will say,

"I am an open book. And you will always be my chapters."

July, 2019
Thank you for passing by. 
I owe you my book. Literally.


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