In the event of supposedly trying to forget you, I remember you instead. Maybe it was the way you tried to meet my eyes as I spoke to you, or the way you threw me the smile I had wished for to be mine.
Why is it then that I try to collect the pieces of you, breaking you down and holding them close, when in fact they mean nothing to you? A smile is a smile is a smile, but something about yours just makes me want to run miles and write endless lines, the way sonnets work. I can never write just two sentences for yo because words cannot be limited to the infinite possibilities that I could’ve had with you.
But on the other hand, I’m tired of searching for the signs, to try to find meaning in the rain that falls, the song that plays on the radio, and serendipity. To hell with that. Why?
It’s difficult enough to accept the fact that we can never be, or that you cannot feel the way I feel for you at any given time because no matter how much everything just emerges, it’s your choice in the matter and if you don’t feel that way, we just can’t be no matter how much I push it.
But what’s even more difficult for me to grasp is the fact that I allow other people to express what I feel for you in generic lines, that I allow the pain I suffer for you to be eclipsed in the words that don’t belong to me. Those songs, those lines are written for another One, so why can’t the lines I write be words I write for you?
So I write this to you for the last time in the hopes that the world knows you in one way or another, and on that note I will try to forget you to remember someday who you were to me and how much at one point you had meant the world to me, as the world had loved you, or even more so.