Maybe next time, I'll pause.
I'll wait.
I'll love myself first before seeking you.
I'll trust my instincts more.
Maybe next time, you'll see me for who I am.
You'll love me unapologetically.
You'll fight to stay.
You'll never let go.
Maybe next time, we'll end up together.
The mosquitoes — you're reminded as you swing blindly in the dark — unrelenting in their 360⁰ flights around your ears for the upteenth time, cry out in annoyance.
If them no see food chop, you no go sleep be that.
Despite the fact that he played — feels weird using past tense here — for a rival team, I actually liked Diogo Jota and watching him play.
A really good footballer.
He will be missed, on and off the pitch.
Someone might wonder why I'm writing this about a footballer who doesn't know I exist (trust me, I've seen some people say this).
But it doesn't matter, because I know he exists.
And I've known loss. Not once, not twice.
So, it's not beyond me to feel this way when someone passes
I remember once, a long time ago, when I was wide-eyed and my curiosity of the world had me believing in Pokemon and Pegasuses and infinite cartwheels.
Now, it's all taxes and threats of world wars in a time when I'm still trying to grow into my adult boots.