You.

I’ve been writing your name
in my journals
(on and off)
for as long as I’ve had journals.
You were always there.
And you’ll never not be here.

I hate it.

I don’t hate you.
How could I ever hate you.
You knew me when
I was shy
and not popular
and insecure
and had hair that didn’t fit with the trend.

I don’t love you.
How could I ever love you.
You knew I cared
and yet you teased
everything you wanted out of me.
It’s my fault too.
It takes two.

But I do miss you.
How could I ever not.
You knew me singularly
and I don’t want to stop thinking
about those nights
and that sunrise.

Maybe one day
I’ll dream about someone else.
I’ll write about someone new.
But until then
it’s you.

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