You might be better as a dream

Are we meant to be together?

Obviously not.

How many words have I written about you though?

I should go back and count them just so I can mutter to myself,

“holy shit.”

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.

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