I sat at my broken laptop for the past 4 hours reading almost three years of old conversations on AIM. I got lost in our story. I still think it's a good one. The more I read, the more I smiled. I was right back there. Fighting and crying and sacrificing. Loving.

Then I look up from the screen and check the time on my phone. It's almost 5 A.M. and it's not 2008. I turn twenty-two next month and I'm in this room all alone. 

I don't want to try. 
I don't want to.
I don't want to.

I miss that bubble and feeling so safe and invincible. I look around and I hate it here. Because I know you're up the street, having completely forgotten all the shit I managed to conjure up in .23 seconds. Because I know "there" won't be any better but at least I'll look like I'm trying.

If I had known then what I know now -- I would have done a lot of things different. But I couldn't have known. There was no way to know.

I know I can't love you anymore. It's sort of against the rules. 

As my quiet tears hit my iPhone screen, all I can think about is how I don't want to love anyone.

I can't touch anyone.
I can't love anyone.
I can't be with anyone.

I may look back on this and laugh at myself for being so dramatic but this just. Hurts. Too. Much.

We were so young and innocent. And now everything is fucked up and old.

Who can I reach out to now?

I feel sorry for a lot of people. But mostly I feel sorry for me. I'm sorry I let you down. It won't happen again.

I don't know why I expected anything different. You seem to be right back where you started except everything is two years later.

You don't know what it means to feel or to love or to care. You've got amnesia. You can't remember a God damned thing. You talk down about love like you were never in it. You don't know shit about shit. You hide behind your car and all your clothes and your shoes and your girls and your Solo cups and music and films. You watch other people feel so you don't have to.

You think you've got it all figured out but you don't know shit. You look into my eyes and fucking lie, lie, lie. And you think I can't tell. You think I can't tell that you're broken. I broke you!

And I hate who you are but that's partially my fault too. Your "philosophy on life" sounds like something you'd find on the inside cover of a self-help book for motherless frat boys. Right up your alley. You're not Tom Cruise, this is not Vanilla Sky -- I promise. This is not lucid dreaming or 150 years later. This is five months and we're still texting.

Wake up.

That's not a philosophy. It's a fucking excuse. Because you're a child and you still haven't learned how to deal with your emotions. And to think I was getting down on myself for my coping strategies!

This is the next level of emotion. Not love or lust or saddness or diminished intrigue but disgust. You make me fucking sick. Your whole life is one big fucked up lie just so you won't have to say you're sorry.

Who lives like that? How can you live like that?

That was dream. This is real.

There has got to be something better and more fulfilling than this.

Nothing I do or say can stop people from dying, make my ex-boyfriend come back or fix this fucked up place I'm in.

No Twitter.
No Facebook.
No blogging.

New number then a new state and then I'll go from there.

Until next time .. 

I don't know much other than this constant feeling in the pit of my stomach reminding me of how much I want to leave. I want pine trees, friendship bracelets, humidity, sweet tea, Dylan, Whitman, Kerouac, fresh air, laced fingers (as always), jean cutoff shorts and a new beginning. The last semester and I'm ready to call your bluff. Prove me wrong. Or not.

ZOO R VEVI IVZOOB DZMGVW DZH ULI FH GL YV SZKKB.

We are both all so confused, aren't we?

It always seems like when I'm feeling my best the world just finds some sick, perverse way of shooting me down. I miss you so much. Especially on nights like these when I lose something else and my heart dips itself into the well of my never ending tears. It isn't fair. What happens to people and how more often than not we're only victims of the universe not masters. I don't know what to do in this bed alone. I don't know what to feel or who to talk to or how to act. I don't know what it is expected of me. I wish you'd make a sound, rustle some feathers. I miss the feel of your thumbs against my eyelashes as you wiped away my tears. I miss your fingertips, your fingers, your hands. Too often we get caught up in the thematic of things. The titles, the procedures, the roles. I will not apologize, I am not declaring weakness. I just miss you and I am going to allow myself to feel this way tonight.

I'd being lying if I said I never meant to hurt you. I wanted you dead. I wanted you to feel as lifeless as I did. And even now, as I have regained balance upon my swing -- something doesn't feel right. It is because I am forever changed. By your love and our demise and all the feelings that are (still) left over. I would never ask anyone to fill the hole and the void you created. You were perfectly gold. Creme brûlée. It seems near sin, even now, to try to pretend like a circle could fit in your sqaure. Like I would be okay of you attempted to do the same.

Truth be told -- at the risk of being completely bare to Nature and the Universe -- when I think of you I still see me next to you. You are never alone. Not in a dream at night, not in a daydream, not in a passing memory. You are right next to me and we are hand in hand. Your damp, cool hair sticking to your forehead.

I miss you. Please.