Bluh Bluh Whatever
Had it only been a year? A year? Not even--still about twenty-nine days shy of a year. Only about a year? Strange; the time felt like a small eternity in passing, looking back it seems like lifetimes separate this day from that miserable day I'm thinking of. Really, just one little year? You know my grasp of time is not that good, and I am finding it hard to believe it was not two years, or a decade perhaps. But no. It was only a year.
I only want to say that I miss you, though I don't even know if what I'm missing is real anymore. Maybe it's the nostalgia talking. Maybe it is wrong to be admitting this. Maybe you won't even read it.
It has been a year thick with lies and distractions and meaningless interactions, of hate, of unforgiveness, and of wasted time. Not a week went by in which I did not, at least once, taste regret. Happiness was fleeting, if it was even there at all. These things are difficult to judge, in retrospect. Still, I miss you. Not that I have the right to.
I only want to say that I miss you, though I don't even know if what I'm missing is real anymore. Maybe it's the nostalgia talking. Maybe it is wrong to be admitting this. Maybe you won't even read it.
It has been a year thick with lies and distractions and meaningless interactions, of hate, of unforgiveness, and of wasted time. Not a week went by in which I did not, at least once, taste regret. Happiness was fleeting, if it was even there at all. These things are difficult to judge, in retrospect. Still, I miss you. Not that I have the right to.