The first time you talked to me, I laughed, and something inside of me knew you were the one.
Even if I didn’t realize it, I knew deep down that you were going to be The One, and maybe you aren’t, but I want to believe that you are and if I believe something to be true hard enough, maybe it will.
I’ve always admired art, but you pour your entire soul into every work, and I know you tear them up, but I wish you wouldn’t.
And if you ever ask me how much I love you, I will reply with “From here” and maybe you’ll know what I mean, or maybe you won’t.
You pour your heart and soul into every work of art you make, and every poem you write and I wish I could do the same, because that is what makes your art and your writing so amazing.
I know so much about you just from a glance at your work, because you put everything out there for the world to see, even if you don’t mean it.
My words are direct, and blunt, but you have a way for metaphor I could never grasp.
When we talk, I feel happier than I’ve ever been, and as I just wrote that, you woke up and messaged me.
One day I’ll stand at your grave, and we’ll have broken up months or years before, and I’ll say “To here.”, and no one will know what I mean but me, and it won’t matter, because you won’t hear it, and I will never break your heart, at least not on purpose, because I know I make mistakes and I know I hurt people without meaning to.