Photo by Janine Mizéra

I ache for you.

It’s three in the morning,

and I’m grasping for an excuse

not to call you.

I used to be fearless. I used to be invincible.

But now my fingers

are fumbling for

the empty space

of your outline on my bed sheets.

I’m sitting here

trying to convince myself

that I don’t want you –

but the more I say it

the less I believe it.

I am starting to accept

that you never loved me.

And it’s sad

because I don’t think you see

how beautiful you are to me.

Your face was the light

that chased away the shadows,

every nightmare, every fear.

But you burned out and now

I’m learning to be afraid

of the dark once again.

—

Sade Andria Zabala is a twenty-four year old Filipina surfer sometimes living in Denmark. She is the author of poetry books War Songs and Coffee and Cigarettes. Her work has appeared on places such as Literary Orphans, The Thought Catalog, The Rising Phoenix Review, Hooligan Magazine, Germ Magazine, and more. In her spare time she likes to eat words and drink sunlight.

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