I miss you. I can’t read a single poem without thinking about you. I hate how we weren’t closer, how the distance grew toward the end. I hate that I’ll have to live with that regret. I hate how you never wrote me a love poem, simply because our love wasn’t timed with your poetry phase. I hate that I call it love, I hate that that’s what it was. I hate that I still kind of love you. I love you, I guess. I’m pretty sure I love you. Maybe I love you…

I love you.

I love the way you’ve put pen to paper from the day you were born, and I love that you’ll never stop. I love that you’re a worrisome, careful person, I love how hard you try to be mature but at the same time refuse to ****** the child inside you, something most of society views as an unavoidable rite of passage. I love that you’re free. I love that you dream, that you believe, I love that you don’t quite realize how your potential is more beautiful and has more breadth than the entirety of those cosmos you admire oh so much. I love how you fear you’re stuck in the past when you’ve evolved more in one teenage lifetime than most do in one adult lifetime. I love that you’re just a little bit crazy. I love how you drive me just a little bit crazy. I love how everything you are, your passions, your personality, every little trivial trait, desirable or otherwise, rubbed off on me in the most subtle ways.

I'm sorry.