But, but. Sometimes you still wonder how it would have felt to hold his hand, to trace the curve of his spine. Sometimes you still hold his secrets in the gaps between your lower ribs, like tiny stars waiting to erupt. On nights like these you find yourself missing something you never even had. “We could have loved each other,” you say into the emptiness. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” the emptiness replies. “Why torture yourself this way?

I never wanted to give up on you, I just couldn’t stand feeling like this.

Maybe we shouldn’t talk. Maybe we should remove each other from each other’s life completely. Maybe. Maybe you’ll never be with me. Maybe you’ll never realize how good I’d be to you. Maybe you’ll push me away forever. Maybe you’ll use me another 3 times giving me more false hope. Maybe you’ll call me next week in the middle of be night confessing your love to me. Maybe you’ll look at me and see how perfect I am for you. Maybe you’ll realize how much I put up with for you and what I’d do for you. Maybe you’ll decide to let me love you. Maybe you’ll say fuck it and be with me. Maybe you’ll let me in. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I won’t be here when that happens.