When you write about someone for long enough
eventually all you can do is replay the last time you saw them,
like a record player stuck on repeat,
spitting out words like
stay.
And I can't help but wonder why
I love you
sounds more like an apology than a confession when it comes from my mouth.
Maybe because I could write an obituary for every time I ever fell in love with you,
but I don't know if that means I've fallen out just as many.
I think of you and I know what Van Gogh meant when he wanted to feel yellow inside -
but this is about the time that paint starts to taste a lot like pestalince,
and I just don't feel like much of an artist anymore.
Especially when all I can ******* think about is you leaning in first to anyone other than me,
but I learned a long time ago that no matter how much you love someone *it won't make them miss you.