I think about you as I write. I worry about what I'm saying or not saying. I worry about what you must think of me when you read this, because we both know you still do. Although maybe not for much longer. Or may be you always will. I think about how this will eventually stop. This constant urge to tell you everything on my mind. Like how a lot of wonderful things have happened recently. Like how I can't watch Austin power movies anymore. Like every time it rains , and I mean REALLY rains, I think about how we could've made that kiss better. I think about the way you used to look at me. How once upon a time every secret held a gem, or how I never stopped loving your laugh. NO matter where I hear it. It still made me smile. I know this will stop. It always does. But I'm allowed to miss you. Or rather this idea of you I created . I'm allowed to be angry. I'm allowed to walk through each memory and keep hold of the small treasures,
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