And I bet she doesn't write poetry
I bet her mind is shallow, floating above water in places where I am drowning
She does not trace homes in your chest
She does not wait for it to be perfect
She does not wait for it to be love
Our eyes spoke more than our mouths ever did and I figured that was okay
We were butterflies in tummies and fluttering heartstrings of laughter that lasted a little too long
I am now spending my time trying to figure out if I have gotten stronger or weaker and which of those is worse
Even fragile hearts are strong enough to hold on to something as big as love
No matter these callused palms that you may find no reassurance in, your act of running away does not mean I won't stop reaching out
I know that I have gotten better
But I will forever be tempted to drive by your house just to remember what it looked like and I am never sure if I want you to be outside to see me or completely oblivious to the fact that I still love you
I do not want to seem weak, and I know that I am a new person because of you
I just wish you could meet her
She still writes poetry
She always will