I have to accept that there are days when I am over you, and there are days when it still hurts.
I stopped writing about you, and your eyes weren’t horizons anymore. Your voice wasn’t music; your presence wasn’t a fresh breath of air. You were just this boy, at some point in my life, who tried to make me fall in love with him and chose to leave me in the dust.
I think about you more than I let on.
I have to stop being angry with myself for being human. It was a mistake that was both terrifying and beautiful, but a mistake nonetheless