I'm retracing my steps with a skeptical pen and my tired feet through our brief story, to see where I started to walk off the page.
I try to pinpoint every smile that was half hearted and every remark that was unremarkable before the pain in my feet migrates to my head and this pain in my chest punctures my pride.
We had a petite love, never quite blossoming never quite growing to it's full potential and I'm the one stuck wanting more time and I keep wasting my own time so I can't place blame, but I'll let a little anger sneak through because it's warranted, and because it feels so ******* good.