When you were mine, I always wrote about this day and how it would inevitably come for us. I wrote about losing you before it even happened as if I was a professional at living with only half of a heart, walking around with infinitely empty hands and an ache in my chest that never seems to leave. I wrote about how you would leave and I would be devastated, but no string of words could have ever prepared me for this catastrophic mess you've made of everything. I would write about the day you would find someone else, as if writing it down could eliminate the possibility of it ever actually happening. I'm not sure which world that logic even begins to make sense in. I would write about seeing you with her - the girl who undeniably serves as my replacement; although she is only a shell of me - never bothers to pick up a pencil to draw or write and as hard as I try I can't seem to find where her beauty even begins to compare to mine, but I guess that doesn't matter. Your eyes never looked at me the same way again. I would write about her, the girl I was so sure could never really exist, and how I would smile because even though it wasn't with me anymore, you would be happy. But honestly, your so called happiness makes me ******* sick. I want to write about how I looked at you and saw the rest of my life, how despite every single one of our irreconcilable differences and in spite of all your flaws - which were plentiful - I loved you to a fault. You leaving split me in two like a tectonic plate shifting away from its other half on the face of the earth. And despite either of our best efforts, being separated is only proof of the undeniable fact that at one point, we were together.

It's 3 a.m,
and a month ago, I would have drugged myself to sleep to simply steal a few hours of blissful unconsciousness.
I would have cried until I couldn't any longer, I would have thumbed through each and every photo of you, your voice would have been my last cognizant thought.
I would wake up and convince myself that if I had to, I would wait an eternity for you.

It's 3 a.m,
and now, I'm not thinking of you.
I haven't touched my sleeping pills all week, and I'm staring at the stars realizing that even the smallest victories are worth celebrating. I no longer close my eyes and hope to see your face when I finally decide to open them again. I smile, and you are not the reason why.

It's 3 a.m,
and your body wasn't the last one to be in my bed. Your hands will soon forget the feeling of my skin beneath your palms, all the while his fingertips are rejoicing at the sensation and singing hallelujah in their sleep. You let me go, and he can't stand to watch me leave.

It's 3 a.m,
and finally,
finally,
finally,
I am free

I want the boy who's never even bothered to pick up a pencil in his spare time to fall for me so **** hard the only form of solace he finds is in filling notebooks with poetry about how my eyes look like the sunsets he never bothered to watch before he met me, how my skin is so soft he has to say it out loud just to feel the words on his tongue, how my kiss sent him to heaven and how he felt like he had it better here on earth in my bed. And I know I'm not the only ******* the planet, but I want to give him tunnel vision; sunglasses tinted with love so strong that he's only able to see me in everyone he meets, see my face on crowded streets and hear my voice is silent rooms. I want him to love me more than I loved you. I want him to show me that it's possible.

It's a special sort of twisted, really - my subconscious forcing me to endure this hell even in my sleep. I can't seem to seek refuge anywhere now; you occupy every corner of my mind, as if you didn't every day before. And can I ask, how do your hands make it through the day? How do your fingers pass the time, do your palms ever cry wondering where mine have been? It's been so long since I've touched your soul, and I'm just now beginning to realize that that is very different than simply touching your skin. But there was nothing simple about it. There was nothing mundane, ordinary, or casual about our love - and unfortunately for you these are the truths that quite frankly just cannot be denied. You can try all you want, use all your might to pretend that this love never happened between the two of us. You may be able to fool them; hell, you may even be able to fool yourself every now and again, but when you're alone in the deepest parts of yourself, I like to believe that you'll feel me there the most - feel my hair tickle your arm or my fingers drag over your spine or my lips brush against your neck - these are the places you will feel me most, and I will feel you everywhere, forever.

I wished you happy birthday, and washed up on the island of lost love. When was it that we fell out of sync? I want to retrace each moment, pin point the exact place in time where you looked at me and saw someone else. Where you stopped opening your eyes at all when I was underneath you. I know these truths are the hard ones, but I need to know. I wished you happy birthday and I didn't say that I loved you. It was hard, like talking to a friend and noticing that they have something stuck in their teeth. Do you say something or not? I've got all of your promises stuck in my teeth. All the toothpicks in the world wouldn't help. Maybe I'm keeping them like souvenirs for when you decide you mean them again. I wished you happy birthday, and you said thank you. Why do our conversations look like two people speaking who have never even been in love? Do you remember? All the long nights, all the first times, all the last times. I don't think I could ever forget. I wished you happy birthday, and I couldn't help myself, I had to ask. "Was I first?" there's something reassuring about asking questions you already know the answers to. But I can't help hearing that children's song dancing in the back of my brain. "First is the worst, second is the best," but second isn't best. I was so consumed with being your first, you being my first, that I forgot the most prominent childhood truth. First is the worst.
I wanted to be your last.

It's like walking around with your shoes on the wrong feet.
It's like trying to write with your left hand.
It's like trying to keep your head above water when no one ever taught you how to swim.
It's like that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you've forgotten something.
It's like when you were in school, and the teacher told you to take notes, but you thought you'd be able to remember without them, and you were wrong.
It's like the advice your mother used to give you, but you never listened to.
It's like you were always aware of the possibility, you just never accepted the thought that it could ever become a reality.

"If you love someome, let them go."

Easier said than done. How am I supposed to let you go? How do I unclench my fists, how do I unhook my hands, how do I unstitch my heart? I was never good at taking things apart; I only ever knew how to keep them together.

"If they come back, they're yours..."

Coming back. This quote fails to acknowledge all the lost time in between leaving and returning. All the days that run together like a mess you don't know how to clean up, the weeks that pass agonizingly slow, the months that go by without ever hearing from you.

I know how the quote goes, I know how it ends. Saying it out loud tends to turn my stomach and squeeze my heart until it hurts. I can't handle that possibility - the possibility of you never really being mine to begin with. It's a thought I won't let my mind try to rationalize. It's a theory I refuse to accept.

You were mine. We shared four amazing years of laughter, of adventure, of love. The days went by quickly and the weeks passed with ease, each month came and went without any attention from us. Time didn't matter.
It hardly existed at all.

You were mine. I loved you beyond a reason why, beyond pride, beyond fault or mistake. I loved you regardless of circumstance and without obligation. I loved you so much it consumed me. I loved you, and you were mine to love.
You were mine,
but maybe I was never yours.

"if they don't, they never were."