What I hate the most about myself is that I still think of you fondly, even the “new” you.
I keep thinking of ways I’d care for you, I keep holding space for you in my head which is ultimately my heart.
After that last post I hallucinated a voice saying “if I had an Instagram you’d be blocked” and, while that is a fair, if not, reasonably reality, I also see us talking again, laughing, caring about what’s happening in one another’s lives.
And I don’t know what to call this other than the all encompassing term, “love.”
It’s just here for you, whenever you want it, and maybe it will always be here for you, because as damn hard as I try to push past it I always seem to find myself confronted by it in one way or another.
It doesn’t suck that I love you.
What sucks is that you don’t love me back.