Nov 2013
08.23.13; 1 AM
And do you know, that night I went to bed thinking “What if four years from now I still like him?” The possibility haunts.
It’s been a year and fortysome poems since you. It’s been fiftysome conversations that I wasn’t the one to start. It’s been one birthday. And I carefully avoided greeting you.
You don’t know, you broke my heart. And then you made me trip over it. Maybe I bumped my head and got confused. Maybe I’m still on my knees, picking up pieces. Forty poems since you and only three were written without thought of you; you stained my fingers and you’re always seeping out. Fifty conversations which you began, but you’re always ending them; maybe I still want a thousand more.
I didn’t greet you because you greeted me late… Do you know, that hurt, but I almost understand now that you don’t care. And I cried a lot because you don’t care. I am so stupid though, because, I do. I miss you.
And do you know, that night I went to bed thinking “What if four years from now I still like him?” The possibility haunts.
It’s been a year and fortysome poems since you. It’s been fiftysome conversations that I wasn’t the one to start. It’s been one birthday. And I carefully avoided greeting you.
You don’t know, you broke my heart. And then you made me trip over it. Maybe I bumped my head and got confused. Maybe I’m still on my knees, picking up pieces. Forty poems since you and only three were written without thought of you; you stained my fingers and you’re always seeping out. Fifty conversations which you began, but you’re always ending them; maybe I still want a thousand more.
I didn’t greet you because you greeted me late… Do you know, that hurt, but I almost understand now that you don’t care. And I cried a lot because you don’t care. I am so stupid though, because, I do. I miss you.
