Having feelings for you was like blindfolding myself and spinning around in a bunch of circles and getting really drunk and then deciding to go stumbling through a canyon with only one way out. I knew what I was getting myself into but I am a strong believer in the benefit of the doubt, of miracles. I wanted to know you from the inside out but sometimes I think I only know you from the outside in. On paper, we were perfect. Everyone thought we were made, ****, even I did; but there were flaws in our fabric that not even we could see. I’ve been told that if a writer falls in love with you, you never die but what happens when you fall in love with a writer? Sometimes I think if you laid me down side by side with a corpse you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. There’s a lot to be said about lost relationships, but what is there to be said about almost, could-have, should-have beens? I don’t know if I’m allowed to miss the way you’d say my name like you knew something I didn’t, like there was this big secret about me that only you knew. Sometimes anger and sorrow block out longing, but that’s not to say that I don’t miss you. I hold my breath whenever I see you but I’m not even sure why or what I am so afraid of. You were always the one to pick up the pieces but I’m not sure what to do now when you’re the one that put them there. I know I will be fine, and that one day I won’t exist and nothing will matter, but right now everything matters. I am a veteran in heartbreak, I know what to do this time. I’m a sucker for symbolism, and I think maybe that’s why I opened that fortune cookie last night. I wanted so badly to mean the world to you like you did to me, I wanted so badly to show you that love was good and though she hurt you I never would. I wanted so badly for us to grow, and to thrive. I wanted so badly for so many things but all I’ve got left is a dead rose and a text message waiting to be sent. I’m way past losing track of time. Tracking time. Things that seem so minuscule are colossal to me and every slight shift in your demeanor felt like a hurricane. I remember this one time, I got so ******* high and all I could do was talk about your hands. That’s when everyone knew I was ******, because I was singing songs about your hands before I ever got to hold them. I think I owe it to myself to find closure, but how can I expect to do that when I don’t even know how to end a poem? I was just a bad apple and you are the most beautiful orchard. I never deserved to be a part of you.