The lack of you
I think I loved you. I’m sure I wanted to, throughout 65 days and their 64 nights, because that "it's over" text never came. But you turned into a ghost on the 65th night. I genuinely think I loved you.
Like, I get that it wasn’t that deep, but waking up to your good mornings and sleeping to your goodnights, laughing at your stories, sort of set the tone to fall.
Or maybe the thousends of times you called me pretty Or that time we opened up about our traumas Or we shared our problems, hoping to hear solutions Maybe those set the tone for me to fall.
Sometimes I wonder— even though time has already passed— why would you do something like that? Play to be boyfriends, knowing that you didn’t want to and never would, with me whatsoever. It was just so selfish.
And still, with all that... The lack of you hurts, but not as pain does. It hurts as the heart does. And I lie awake to the sound of my thoughts, “You were the problem.” “This is how life is going to be.” “How could you be so stupid?”
With a little fortune, you will forever be a lack for me. And I will heal, and it will no longer hurt. And with a little more luck, you’ll be better, and at least, to the next one, you’ll say: goodbye.
‘cause you left me with so much to say that I had to share my bleeding open heart with the world.