I finally gave up on you about two and a half years ago.
Once you told me you loved me and then apologized for the excess…for the years of trying to fuck and it not happening…I knew it was a lie, and my heart finally said fuck it.
It wasn’t love for you. Probably wasn’t for me either. Definitely wasn’t for me either.
I watched you grow with your one true love, and didn’t feel any malice for her. Didn’t consider her the winner or lucky. I just accepted it.
Yet sometimes I see you and for a brief second the familiar pang rouses in my chest and I think to myself, “It should’ve been me.” But if it was meant to be me, it would’ve been me.