You see her one day and something's different. Every magazine is full of blank pages. Every billboard is empty. She is the only face you want to see and the only taste you need.
You touch her and her skin is soft like chocolate, but she melts. The verdict? Put away the candy jar. You diet for a year and nothing changes. She's still the only thing you want to make a mess of.
Six years later the realization comes- you were weak and she was there. It was only ever time and space that put you together. You spent every second of the past decade lying her into perfection until you believed every word. But the truth is, you were never happy, and neither was she.
The things that used to remind you of her don't anymore. You've been to New York City half a dozen times since then and never once did you think of her and flinch. Your body has purged her memory and so has your mind. You haven't associated her with Times Square in eons. There's ten years of nothingness between the Tuesday when you saw her and now. But nothing you say could change how that time passed or what it did to you.
And you repeat and repeat, to yourself this time, it should've been you.