Are we meant to be together?
How many words have I written about you though?
I should go back and count them just so I can mutter to myself,
I thought whenever I said I loved you that I didn’t know what I was doing,
that I said it because I thought I should and not because I did.
But I did. I absolutely did.
And you never had to say it back.
“I like you a lot,” was enough for me even if I wanted to hear you say more.
But I always go back to my idea that, if it hurts it must have been special.
Well girl, it fucking hurts.
I wonder though, after the fact, where would we be right now if none of that happened?
It very well could have melted away slowly into a casual acknowledgement of each other’s existence.
So maybe it’s better this way then.
Now I can love you forever with pure pain and regret without reality getting in the way.
I can hurt, lust and swoon and not have it ruined by rational thought.
You might be better as a dream,
because poet’s don’t live in the real world.