I have never once wanted to write about you.
That is not an insult, so please do not take it as one. The reasoning is this: I write about the people who break my heart. The fact that now you are the subject of my art means just that, you have succeeded in doing so.
For weeks, I found myself grasping at the remains of us, trying to get us back to where we used to once reside. Happiness was once a constant feeling alongside you. Now it’s fleeting.
After nights of deliberation, I mustered up the courage to admit to myself that I deserve better. I do not deserve to feel unwanted or forgotten. You made me feel this way.
You make me feel this way.
Truly unfortunate, as I had been starting to feel a way for you that I had never felt for anyone before. You promise me over and over again that you still want this, that you still want me. But your words are just words unless accompanied by your actions. And that, my dear, is where you are lacking.
Still, though, I wish you were not my muse. I wish we had never gotten to this point, where all I feel is the ever-growing distance between us. I will not beg for you to feel what you once felt if you do not feel it now; I only ask for your honesty.
I am told that love is a gamble, rooted in vulnerability and trust. You need to know that I am risking it all through my faith that if we are meant to be, everything will happen in our favor. I do hold out hope that we can find our way back to where we used to be.
But that takes not only effort on my part, it takes yours too.