I don’t think I should write about you,
I think I should keep these thoughts to myself.
No one wants to read about what we once felt.
Is it therapeutic, or does it just make me miss you more?
Never mind, it doesn’t matter—I'm the one who shut that door.
Is what I miss even real, or is longing for you painting us with bliss?

You had the hours I could never find,
I needed silence—you required quick replies,
Patience isn’t promised just because it's implied.
Maybe I crave you because, deep down, I knew it’d never work out.
Your quiet chaos battled my loud catastrophe,
Succumbing to you was a kind of personal blasphemy.