Just when I thought I had shared everything of me with you, I realized I forgot to show you my favorite poems. And I did, and you read each and every one of them.
What made my heart race the most was the fact that you tried. You tried to understand how I would relate to this poem and you genuinely cared.
Just when you began painting of beautiful blues and yellows, reds and oranges, purples and greens, in a world that used to be just black and white for me,
when my thoughts because a little bit more optimistic, time and situations grabbed us both by our feet and dragged us away from each other.
We held on, and we fought, and we tried, and we cried.
In the end, our hands were worn out from gripping and we had to let go.
What made my heart hurt the most was the fact that I kept on reading and reading, and I kept finding more poems, but I had to keep them buried deep inside my chest.
No one else would understand, or at least care to.