I remember sitting with my legs crossed at an empty parking lot with you. Burning our lungs, sharing our deepest secrets at 3am while I rest my head on your shoulder that cold summer night. I sang along our favorite songs and you wished that time stopped so we could still be together.
You are still too damaged. You think too much. You are too practical. You are not yet ready for anything.
And I’m left confused and angry and frustrated and a little bit hurt, I guess.
So here we are again, so here we go again.
Who would have thought that we would actually burn even faster than our cigarettes?