I always find myself getting caught in the misalignment of your teeth, tripping over the angles of your smile and drowning in the sound of your voice telling me stories about the place you grew up. The sound of your voice carries the same comforting familiarity that a child feels when they notice that the clouds never cease to leave their side on a long car ride. What you don't see is that I am merely a cloud of stardust floating like the smoke of an exhaled cigarette and you are a whole universe that I could get irrevocably lost in. Except I hope I'm not like nicotine to you, because love isn't about addiction or obsession it's about comfort and just like how I never forget to lock my door at night because I feel safer with a tiny piece of metal separating the outside from me, I feel so safe in your arms even though they're merely just pieces of flesh.

You do not need to search for the light at the end of the tunnel. I know you can't tell but the light of your eyes shines bright enough to illuminate the tunnel and reveal that its merely a room. A concrete, windowless room that has been built around you by those that don't believe in you. But you are strong. What you don't realize is that the fists you'd been making to stop your hands from searching for a razor in the dark, could be used to punch holes in the walls, revealing the light, to punch holes in the hearts of all the boys that hurt you, revealing that you are more than the proportions of your body. You spent two months in a concrete building speckled with windows that you could only look out of because those who helped build the concrete room around your heart felt like you needed two layers of protection. But helmets are for protection. Condoms are for protection. Shields are for protection. But not like the way they tried to shield you from reality and look away from the depression that trampled you and left bruises on your heart by placing mountains between you and any other teenager who's ever offered you an impure thought. The warmness of your smile is enough to melt the snow that lies between us and send you rushing on a wave back home if it weren't for the walls they left you behind. They seem to think its okay to occasionally lift the lid on your prison to let the butterflies in your stomach out for some air, but you are the one that needs to fly, and I swear to you, when you can't seem to pull your knees close enough to your chest, call my name, and I will run to you, and make sure that nobody ever clips your wings again.

I can type the URL to your blog faster than I can recall my own name and at first it was because I was desperate to find any trace of you that still wanted me, because oh god, did I still need you. But after a while, I didn't stop being sad but I stopped obsessing so much and I just wanted to see how you were doing and sometimes I wondered if you still thought of me. Not in the way that we used to think of each other, I know those days are long over, but the way you think of somebody when you listen to an upbeat song about how much you hate your ex for hurting you so badly. Because I know I hurt you and don't you dare think that you didn't hurt me too, but the wave of relief that came when I saw you blogging about how you hated me so much seemed to wash the desperation off of me that always seemed to cling like grass stains that faded but never quite came out even if I scrubbed until my hands were raw and shaking like the way I was about an hour after I had mustered up the courage to leave you. Then came the pictures, posted happily on your blog like she was the new paint, meant to cover up the chipped mess that remained of me. She may have stolen your heart, but I still have your virginity, its thrown into the back of my closet along with those pairs of shoes that seem like such a good idea to buy, until you realize that they're not the most well built, reliable things, and you really need to stop manic shopping and buying things on impulse. I haven't seen you since what would have been our two year anniversary and honestly I'm glad I haven't, because not a day goes by where I regret hitting you in your face with a baseball bat. But that's a story for another day. Now when I stumble upon your blog, its because i can't figure out how to block people from my account just yet and I don't miss you. When I see that you clearly have a new love interest, I don't miss you. When I wear the dress you bought me for my birthday, I don't miss you. When I listen to what was our song, I want to punch myself in the face for letting you ruin such a good Beatles song for me, but I don't miss you. And when I inevitably run into you again at future shows, I will not miss you.