Dear you,
I don't know what to say anymore.
I have mad moments in which I want to take it all back, keep doing whatever it was I thought I was doing, apologise for leaping to conclusions and just remain the way we were.
I want to talk. I want to be around you. In the face of all rationality, I want you to want to talk and want to be around me, too.
How lame, right?
But mostly I want to stop thinking about you. Stop avoiding love songs and other people who are driving me insane with their, 'But why did you do this?'. Stop my heart twisting at the thought that I can no longer just keep something in mind to tell you later; can't fulfil my promises and bug you to fulfil yours.
They say it'll get better. They say I'll stop caring. But I don't want to. But I don't want to, I cry like an impatient child. It's just not fair. I run on the treadmill to the beat of those words. It's. Just. Not. Fair. I pound it out to every step until I'm tired and sweaty.(and I hate being sweaty, but I welcome the fatigue)
Even lamer.
I wonder if you miss me, even a little bit, even at all. There I go, wandering into dangerous territory again.
Must not think of you. Must not speak to you. Must not want to cry. Oh, dear.
I don't know what to say anymore.
I have mad moments in which I want to take it all back, keep doing whatever it was I thought I was doing, apologise for leaping to conclusions and just remain the way we were.
I want to talk. I want to be around you. In the face of all rationality, I want you to want to talk and want to be around me, too.
How lame, right?
But mostly I want to stop thinking about you. Stop avoiding love songs and other people who are driving me insane with their, 'But why did you do this?'. Stop my heart twisting at the thought that I can no longer just keep something in mind to tell you later; can't fulfil my promises and bug you to fulfil yours.
They say it'll get better. They say I'll stop caring. But I don't want to. But I don't want to, I cry like an impatient child. It's just not fair. I run on the treadmill to the beat of those words. It's. Just. Not. Fair. I pound it out to every step until I'm tired and sweaty.(and I hate being sweaty, but I welcome the fatigue)
Even lamer.
I wonder if you miss me, even a little bit, even at all. There I go, wandering into dangerous territory again.
Must not think of you. Must not speak to you. Must not want to cry. Oh, dear.
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