The afternoon we decided to end things, sitting too close to each other on a bench in ion- thighs and knees touching. I asked you about you moving onto other girls and you told me, "just know that for now, it's nothing serious."
Were you too afraid to be serious with me? Is that one of the many reasons why we could not work? God, I wish it were easier. And when I was cautiously placing my heart into your hands you just yanked it out, locked it up and placed it on your shelf of prized possessions. I wonder how many jars of hearts you have collected.
I recognised that look you gave her today when I saw it. Foolishly, I always thought that whenever I caught your eyes staring at me like that, it was a look specially crafted, for you to look at me in entirety.
But I should stop obsessing and thinking that I was someone special, something that rarely appeared in your life, even though your words in December does not reciprocate this. She told me you used to say the same things to her, when I told her about what you said to me. 4 years of knowing you and to think that your old antics still have a way of working with silly girls like me.
But you are going to be okay. You always appear to be, anyway. Hell, you continously have girls wrapped around your fingers, probably more well-dressed and perhaps fucked up to the degree that you like it to be. I was not that girl. I don't dress like the younger girls, neither am I fucked up in the way you would desire me. But I am someone you still broke twice. Twice, but not in the same way, I would like to think.
I cannot keep writing about you, thinking about you and craving you in my life. There are too many girls and too many delirious thoughts I would have to share you with- if I ever have you the way I want to.
But how the hell am I supposed to move onto better things, when you are the only thing I have known, the only person I have ever loved and the only person that gets me like how no one else does and when we both share a special bond over squishy bread?
No comments:
Post a Comment