I used to believe that as long as the thought of you is there at the wishing hour, one day you and I would be.
So why does it feel like I’m letting you go? Where will you rest after my mind is done with you? And if you were never here, why did it feel like you were?
I don’t think he can love me like I imagined him to be capable of loving. Swallowing me and leading me to the place where everything makes sense; Crimson love against a white sheet; Blue skies that get bluer with his eyes under them. I have an affliction for overestimating some, and terribly, terribly underestimating others. I suppose this is just another case where the one I underestimated happens to be me again.