I've been thinking again. What if what I've thought for as long as I can remember is true? What if the further down the line we get, the less we love. What if you give everything to your first love, and you're scrounging for love like loose change at the bottom of your handbag each time after? I remember what it felt like to be in love, what it felt like to feel like nothing else mattered.

Once you realize that this is the cycle, you're ******. Nothing you do will even come close, nothing you say or do will ever measure up. You will inevitably care less and less. In a way, your first love gives you everything and takes away everything else. And you know I would never let you bask too much in this sadness - So I will tell you this:

While all of this seems ****** and too far gone. There will be love again. You will find someone who treats you the way you deserve and your love will be restored. I think your first and last loves are the most important. Your first love will teach you all that you can give, and all that can be taken away. Your last love will give you everything, expect nothing and take as much as it gives.

I'm only twenty-something and I know now that each person you date will either be the person you marry, or the person you break up with and even though I broke up with her, I know that my heart wasn't in it and maybe it never was.

Maybe I wanted to feel what I felt before, because anything was better than a loveless love. I think tomorrows and yesterdays can ******* up more than the present.

Everyone's always looking back or looking forward, and they never see what's going on right now. They never see that it's going to be okay, or that yesterday will never be the absolute "worst" day of their life. They're letting yesterday's problems ****** who they are because they don't know how to prepare for what's to come. But who even said we have to worry about what's to come? Why can't we just accumulate thoughts and moments and hope that there'll be a reason to share them tomorrow. Why can't people see that it's okay to have a **** week, or month or year. It's not ideal but it's up to you how you pull yourself out.


I think being somebody's yesterday, and another persons tomorrow is what keeps us going in the present. You'll find whatever you're looking for, as long as you don't stop looking.

I won't stop looking.

I sometimes wonder about things and how they fit. Like how my heart hurts in your absence but skips a beat when I see your name on a screen and the lilt in your voice when you tell me that you only make fun of me because you love me. Like how written words are strung together by thoughts that haven’t had a chance to become audible and how before serious things are said voices become shaky. Or how your hands would feel pressed up against mine and how my lips would feel against the crevice of your neck. I wonder how the sun would look hitting your face while we drive to pick up our million friends for lunch, and how I’d smack your hand away from changing the radio station when one direction comes on. How my blankets would feel warmer with your legs and arms wrapped around me or how my eyes would look you up and down when you walk into the room before we leave for that thing “we can’t miss.” How you’re the only girl I’d actually move across the world for just so I could pick you up from work and take you to get ice-cream. How you’d look in a fancy dress with your long hair curled and how I’d slide a section of your hair behind your ear and kiss your forehead, and then your lips. Or how I’d sit you in my lap while I played video games and make out with you just so I had an excuse to afk. I wonder how my perfume would mix with yours and how hard my lipstick would be to get out of the collar of your shirt and how I would whisper how beautiful you are before I pulled you close to me just to rest my head on your shoulder. I sometimes wonder how you and I come together and how we never fall apart and I wonder how I would be if you unravelled and how quickly I could break the record at putting you back together again. I wish I could say I loved you for always defending me, for always believing in me, for never making me feel stupid for things that I like or love, but that’s only part of it. I think I love you because you’re soft, and kind, and honest and everything I’ve always wanted to be. I love you for missing me quickly, for completing me, for never being out of reach. I love you for the things you don’t like about yourself, and for the reasons that you think I’d turn away. I love you because you’re everything and because nothing feels right when you’re gone.

When I say my eyes are sensitive, I don’t mean that I can’t stare into the sun too long or that I squint when I look at my phone in the middle of the night. I mean when I look at you, I see the crooked lines in your beautiful face. I see the curve in your nose, the creases you achieved from laughing too hard. I see how your hair drops a fraction and how you glide the pieces behind your ear. I see how your teeth lightly press into your bottom lip when your face is frozen. I see how certain sounds make your head tilt and how it takes you exactly 4 long chews to finish what’s in your mouth. I see your crooked fingers and how they hold on tightly to your phone and keys when you walk to the car and how your eyelashes are always longer on Tuesdays.
When I say my ears are sensitive I don’t mean that I can’t be around fireworks or that when my dads t.v is too loud I get a headache. I mean the sigh you make after each sentence scares the living hell out of me, and how you always clear your throat twice when you’re about to talk about something important. And how I hear your accent when you say nothing and your laugh when the night is quiet. I hear your teeth clench together as you speak words of anger and your tongue push against the inside of your cheek when you’re being playful. I hear you tell me you’re walking away and that you’ll be coming right back and even when I think you’re silenced you come off mute.
When I say I lost you, I don’t mean I lost you once and that I have dealt with it. I lose you every time I hear a song, or watch a movie. I lose you when I close my eyes and wake up without you. I lose you when I see a couple and when I drop my shopping bags onto the tiles after a long day. I lose you and I lose you and I lose you and even though you’re lost I keep hoping you’ll turn up.
But people aren’t keys or your favorite sweater. They don’t just turn up after days and weeks of looking. They find a path and follow it through and I keep hoping if I follow the path we’ll meet each other and it’ll be like it was. But I know you have sensitive eyes and wear glasses and that your hearing is fine.

There are infinite ways to begin a sentence and often we struggle to find the right words.

They say there are at least a quarter of a million words in the english dictionary; and yet when you come to my mind I only think of three.

If I had the right words to tell you all of the time. I would tell you that you and the sun become one, as you glisten and shine when you walk by.

That time goes by slower when you're not around and that there are no correct ways to measure the extent of butterflies that I accumulate.

I would say that there's a pack or a  school, a bunch, or a tonne of them but like I said -  it's rare we ever find the right words.

I would tell you that the freckles on your cheeks all joined together would spell out our future children's names and that your teeth remind me of how you always bite off more than you can chew.

I would tell you that there is no me without you, but that's a lot of pressure when it comes to the way humans carry themselves and I would never wish that kind of weight on anybodies shoulders.

So while I have the right words, I want you to know that there are an infinite amount of letters in the universe, but an infinite 'I love yous' must suffice in between.

Because even though there are a quarter million words, sometimes - you only need to hear three.

Getting over her was like rush hour. Everything moved so slow and all I could think about was coming home. I waited for her, you know? It was humiliating. For months I felt like I sitting at a booth - being stood up over and over again; until an apologetic face told me that they needed this table and I had to go.

I missed her so bad.

I would pour two drinks instead of one and I’d watch intently until the last drop of condensation slid down the glass onto the coaster. My friends told me it’d be okay but how could what I feel, eventually measure up to a four letter word that meant nothing? “Okay.” What does that even mean?

I wished. Every time I saw the number one appear four times on the clock, I wished. I wished so hard. Birthday candles only come around once a year and for the last two years I wasted them on the same person. I thought that saying the wishes out loud weren’t enough so I started writing them down. Every time I’d catch the clock and I’d write it down. I don’t think you realize how much love consumes you until you call shotgun and go along for the ride.

My sorrow became my badge of honor, my drug of choice and on the days I felt weak I knew wasn’t myself. I didn’t want to be this person. I don’t suggest it, either. And truth be told, I wouldn’t wish this kind of aching on anybody. But it happens. It happens so fast. One day you’re perfectly in love and nothing can touch you, the next you’re empty and you haven’t even had time to let it hit you. Everything keeps moving.

And while you’re pouring drinks for someone who isn’t coming, while you’re stuck in traffic waiting to get home safely, while you’re walking out of the restaurant waiting for valet..

There’s someone else pouring her drinks now, there’s someone else waiting for her at home and you know that the booth you had reserved 5 months earlier now houses their first date. It’s hard, you know?

Everything was so difficult. You never know how to say how you feel. You end up saying too much or not enough. You learn to turn it off. You’re just friends now. Friends? Yeah right. But you’re trying. I’m trying.

I hear her voice and my heart fills to the brim, I am home again. But reality strikes. It gets away from me for a minute. You feel everything you felt but the scenery has changed. Nothing is the same and it probably never will be and you soak it up, you drink it in. This is what has come of this. You put on your best dress, you cut your hair off, you change the color, you change everything they loved because you don’t want to be that person anymore. Being yourself reminds you of them. Being different reminds you of them. Feelings change. They change fast and the best thing that you can do is **** it up. Swallow it like that bitter pill and rinse that bad taste out of your mouth. You were in love, it consumed you and it made you whole but now it’s gone and you need to stop whining about what you’ve lost. Because you aren’t over it, you’re not even close but you’re telling yourself that. And when you tell yourself something enough it becomes true. So I wait in rush hour but I don’t go home. I go to restaurants but I don’t go alone and I pour two drinks and I give someone else one. I am okay, whatever that means.