-you kept saying you wanted me but I didn’t know what I wanted with you. I love you, I think I can say that. I trust you, and I care about you. but that’s not enough. I don’t love you in the right way, or enough. sometimes you frustrate me so much. sometimes I can’t stand you. you try so hard to understand me, but the harder you try the more apparent it becomes that you don’t get it. is that your fault, or mine? why does it have to feel like someone’s fault to begin with? you move too fast, and I don’t tell you to slow down, not because I’m afraid to, not because it makes me uncomfortable, but because I shouldn’t have to tell you in the first place. we aren’t in sync, as much as we want to be, we just aren’t. we’re not over; you know it, i know it. we might never be over though. and eventually the unfinished-ness won’t manifest, and we’ll get used to being never over, I think. I hope. I don’t know. I’m sorry I left early tonight. I didn’t leave because I wanted to; I left because it felt like it was the right thing to do.

- oh, you. you were a dick to me, you know that? you do know that. you apologized for that. here we are, out on the quads late at night, the weather is perfect, and you are inches away from me. you are telling me that you do not have a girlfriend, that I am not a secret you keep, that in the winter you weren’t with her. you are telling me that you find me interesting, that you want to know more about me, and you’re asking all sorts of questions. you are beautiful. this should have been perfect. I should have been so happy. so why wasn’t I? maybe because even though we get along fine, and there is this lovely undercurrent of earnestness, in the end I can’t help but feel like you like this idea of me. that’s not your fault entirely though; when I am around you I put out this idea of myself. it would be so easy to lie to you. it is so easy to lie to you. white lies, selective truths, big lies. i imagine it’s the same for you. to lie to me, i mean. I like your face. I like your smile. I like your limbs, and I like the way your lips taste like smoke. I like the way you have this gentleness about you, and the way you seem genuinely kind. but I don’t know if i like you. I don’t like the way you use “bourgeoisie” in casual conversation, or the way you emphasize and react to really petty details, or the fact that you only talk to me when you want something. 

- you didn’t break my heart. you did, however, impart quite the hairline fracture. it’s not visible and it’s not obvious and it’s not fatal; i can’t bitch about it or rationalize my fixation or nurse it indulgently. but I can feel it, and I know that it’s there. the thing is, this was doomed from the beginning, wasn’t it? you probably already knew so many of my secrets; you’ve seen my past. it didn’t really matter if you remembered them (you obviously didn’t.) because all that mattered was that I knew that you knew, and that made me a vulnerable mess around you. you didn’t even know how intertwined our paths had been. you didn’t even know the effect that had on me. instead, you were genuine and you were nonchalant and you were sweet. you made me feel something i never felt before, something I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling. I’m over you, and I wish you happiness and whatever, but seriously? screw you for showing me what it could be like. you’ve become a point of comparison, and I know that one day someone else will measure up but for now no one can.