Kelcey Zacarese

When you’re the last to fall in love nothing is ever consistent.

You’ve realized that unlike a few months ago, you aren’t checking your ex’s Facebook page or even thinking about the glorious days you spent together last summer.

We are sitting and standing still, but we are never calm—never tranquil, never relaxed.

I wish that I could go to a movie by myself without my mom asking “Who’s the new boy?”

The way your hair was perfectly parted to the left, and the crimson color that painted your cheekbones.

I hope that when you go to bed at night you wish that I were curled up next to you.

I tried changing you.

How much time are we trying to waste here?