I miss you.
There are places people went to but never returned from. There are people who died of war. And, I miss you.
It pisses me off as I realise how a single damn sentence could mean so much that it is harder to say than “Oh, I’m sorry. Your car’s insurance has been expired.”
There are quite a many reasons I sound like an oxymoron when I say I miss you.
1) I preach self-love. 2) I’ve deleted your number from my cellphone. 3) I don’t believe in horoscopes.
All I do to save myself from the embarrassment of missing you is I try to portray it as some deep secret.
People say when you miss someone after they are gone and you know you’re never gonna speak to them again, you actually miss your old self.
I tried a lot to fit myself into the axiom but I couldn’t.
I don’t miss my old self. I think when I was with you, I had forgotten to distinct me being with you and me being without you so radically that it’s impossible to imagine having an old self. It’s like solving differential equation in your head.
I think I miss you more of the reason of what I became when you would be around.
I do acknowledge that my sense of humour is indeed as disastrous as your taste in music is but you only convinced me that it’s no good reason to walk away from people’s life.
You said people walk away when they don’t feel they belong to you. And, to act cooler than I’m for the last time, I’d say I hope you end up where you belong to. Even if it doesn’t have a day that my calendar has.
I have no blood in my veins. I have ink.