Gosh, I love you.

I talk about you often.
I think about you constantly.
I gaze at the only picture I have left of you
that hasn't been burned, torn, trashed, or deleted.

I talk about how much of a **** you were to me.
I think about how you called me a lesbian and unattractive everytime I look at my hair.
I gaze at the picture of us as little kids, sitting together on your porch swing.
I think about how you're different from those days.
And I wonder about the things we might do if we ever see each other again.

Somehow after eight years, I'm still horribly in love with you.


It is probably a good thing that I can't see you anymore.