Ramblings #28: untitled or Christopher Columbus is a crook
I miss you.
I may not act like it, but I do. An' I try not to, but then I would be lying to myself.
But I lie to myself all o' the time about you.
Heh. You're right. Women's logic can be a little flawed sometimes.
But I miss you. I really, really miss you.
I miss your late messages to me. You knew I liked to sleep.
But you knew I liked to talk to you, too. You're so egotistical.
I miss you trying to tickle my knee cap while you drove me home from school.
I miss how you teased me. (And I can't help my height!)
I miss your stupid smile. That stupid side smirk your lips default to when you're speechless.
You know what I'm talking about!
That smile!
That smile where you don't have any thing to whip back at me.
It's rare when I catch your tongue. 'Cause you're such a smart ass.
That's what I love, though. And I can pretend that I don't.
I can pretend that I don't till the day is long.
But at the end of it, I love it.
I love you.
There. There. Finally. I finally said it.
I said I love you.
It's too late, though, yeah, it is.
'Cause there's her.
But I don't want to talk about her.
I want to talk about us. Because there was an us. Until, well,
you stopped messaging me. And taking me home from school. And confiding in me.
We claimed to be friends, right? We never told each other how we really felt.
So why did you stop doing all of those things with me?
Why did we stop talking if you don't like me?
Or do you like me?
Do you?
Did you?
Do you still?
Do you strangle your feelings for me every day like I do?
Do you hope they'd decompose and die from neglect?
Do you just let yourself bleed and burn?
"Fuck it, time will deal with it."
Do you say that?
Hm. Me, too. 'Cause I'll never know about "us." I'll never know what "us" is. Or what "us" could be.
It's been a year. I shouldn't be feelings this way, right? I should be over it, right?
I should, I should. But I'm not, I'm not.
I hope you're not bleeding like me. In fact, I hope you're happy.
You seem to be.
I hope you don't think about this at all.
It's hell.
I hope you don't think of me.
But that should be easy. It happens all the time.
I hope you're at peace, though.
Because every day is a day of what ifs for me.
Of what could've beens.
What could've happeneds.
What didn't happens.
What'll never happens.
I miss you.
I may not act like it, but I do. An' I try not to, but then I would be lying to myself.
But I lie to myself all o' the time about you.
Heh. You're right. Women's logic can be a little flawed sometimes.
But I miss you. I really, really miss you.
I miss your late messages to me. You knew I liked to sleep.
But you knew I liked to talk to you, too. You're so egotistical.
I miss you trying to tickle my knee cap while you drove me home from school.
I miss how you teased me. (And I can't help my height!)
I miss your stupid smile. That stupid side smirk your lips default to when you're speechless.
You know what I'm talking about!
That smile!
That smile where you don't have any thing to whip back at me.
It's rare when I catch your tongue. 'Cause you're such a smart ass.
That's what I love, though. And I can pretend that I don't.
I can pretend that I don't till the day is long.
But at the end of it, I love it.
I love you.
There. There. Finally. I finally said it.
I said I love you.
It's too late, though, yeah, it is.
'Cause there's her.
But I don't want to talk about her.
I want to talk about us. Because there was an us. Until, well,
you stopped messaging me. And taking me home from school. And confiding in me.
We claimed to be friends, right? We never told each other how we really felt.
So why did you stop doing all of those things with me?
Why did we stop talking if you don't like me?
Or do you like me?
Do you?
Did you?
Do you still?
Do you strangle your feelings for me every day like I do?
Do you hope they'd decompose and die from neglect?
Do you just let yourself bleed and burn?
"Fuck it, time will deal with it."
Do you say that?
Hm. Me, too. 'Cause I'll never know about "us." I'll never know what "us" is. Or what "us" could be.
It's been a year. I shouldn't be feelings this way, right? I should be over it, right?
I should, I should. But I'm not, I'm not.
I hope you're not bleeding like me. In fact, I hope you're happy.
You seem to be.
I hope you don't think about this at all.
It's hell.
I hope you don't think of me.
But that should be easy. It happens all the time.
I hope you're at peace, though.
Because every day is a day of what ifs for me.
Of what could've beens.
What could've happeneds.
What didn't happens.
What'll never happens.
I miss you.