When you were mine, I always wrote about this day and how it would inevitably come for us. I wrote about losing you before it even happened as if I was a professional at living with only half of a heart, walking around with infinitely empty hands and an ache in my chest that never seems to leave. I wrote about how you would leave and I would be devastated, but no string of words could have ever prepared me for this catastrophic mess you've made of everything. I would write about the day you would find someone else, as if writing it down could eliminate the possibility of it ever actually happening. I'm not sure which world that logic even begins to make sense in. I would write about seeing you with her - the girl who undeniably serves as my replacement; although she is only a shell of me - never bothers to pick up a pencil to draw or write and as hard as I try I can't seem to find where her beauty even begins to compare to mine, but I guess that doesn't matter. Your eyes never looked at me the same way again. I would write about her, the girl I was so sure could never really exist, and how I would smile because even though it wasn't with me anymore, you would be happy. But honestly, your so called happiness makes me ******* sick. I want to write about how I looked at you and saw the rest of my life, how despite every single one of our irreconcilable differences and in spite of all your flaws - which were plentiful - I loved you to a fault. You leaving split me in two like a tectonic plate shifting away from its other half on the face of the earth. And despite either of our best efforts, being separated is only proof of the undeniable fact that at one point, we were together.