k,

sometimes, when i write your first initial, it feels like i'm writing to myself, and then i remember the way you thought i was beautiful and caring and funny, and i never saw myself the way you did. 

sometimes, when i write your full name, it feels like i'm writing to a stranger, but i didn't lay on my bedroom floor half undressed for a stranger and do the closest thing we knew to making love, and say i love you to a stranger.

sometimes, when i write about what we used to be, i think about what could have been, and where things went wrong, and i hate that, because you were never supposed to feel wrong. you were only supposed to fit into my side and kiss me goodnight on christmas eve and wake me up to santa and snow because, oh god how badly i wanted to spend christmas in michigan with you.

sometimes, when you text me after days and weeks and months of not speaking, my stomach fills with butterflies when i recognize the three digits of your area code, and i immediately save your number and reply, and then it's 12:17 am and you haven't replied in five hours and everything feels pathetic and lonely, and everyone telling me i need to block you is right.

sometimes, when my finger hovers over the block contact button, i shake a little bit and i think about how i promised you forever, and everybody else is holding onto me by my last string, praying to some god out there that i don't give up when you do, but it's getting later and you haven't replied, and we all know better than to think i'll really block your number this time.

sometimes, after i type out my message: i love you, and i miss you, and everyone is wrong because we could have been beautiful together, don't you agree? i remember that you don't, because beautiful people don't have to beg to be a masterpiece, it just happens.

- k

october 28, 2014 : 12:19 am