January 25, 2011

I bet you knew I would regress. I always do, this time of year.
I can’t help but miss you.

No one could love me like you did.
And I’m not talking about the sex. Because that was the smallest part of our relationship.

I’m talking about the letters, and the poems, and all the time you gave to me. You listened. And sometimes you didn’t have to, because you just knew—except when it came to telling me everything would be okay.

I just wish I were 19 two years ago, up in B-Ham with you.

Life would end in a happily ever after, I’m sure.
Instead of a psychotic me who has to find a problem in everything, everyone.
Because I’m stubborn, and I will always be cursed by the day I swore I would be happy with no one but you.