Another lonely night leaves me wondering...

When did I cross that line between simplicity and complication?
Did I sleep through that day?
When did I allow myself to be caught up in this charade of
"I love you" and "If only?"
What happens if I decide I'd rather have
"You're not my type" or "Let's just be friends."
Leaving me where, exactly?

Hovering somewhere between
"The one that got away"
and
"A girl you used to know."




Well, fuck that.





I don't want to spend my life dwelling
on "What could have been"
when it's hard enough to concentrate on "Right now."
I refuse to let myself waste another night
missing the eyes I've never stared into and
the touch I've only dreamed about.
I will not subject myself to this torture,
this pseudo-masochism
for even one more line.





So I'm finished with this.
I'm finished with you.
































































And now, with a great sigh,
I continue writing, knowing I just lied.
I could never stop.
I've grown entirely too addicted to
hushed phone calls in the middle of the night,
ropes cut in pieces, and
holding on to what was never mine in the first place.



But I'll lie to you and say I've stopped anyway.

Will that make it easier on you?

I could never erase you, but White-Out covers almost anything.
So keep telling yourself you don't care about me
if that's what you need to do.
Convince yourself it could never work anyway.



Because it couldn't.
Could it?

(Not if you never give it the chance.)





And when another night draws to a close,
know that as you're drowning in your bottle
I'm suffocating in dreams of your hands around my heart.



At least I'm willing to admit it.

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