I don't remember the last time I've written, and to be totally honest, I just can't seem to find what to write about. I've been finding myself wide awake at 3am with thoughts of you, and how this is even possible. How you meant so much to me at one point in my life, and now I can't talk to anyone that has your name and I can't look at anything that reminds me of your smile. And those deep eyes that I have to put up with every time I look up at the moon, because I remember when I told you how your eyes resemble a night sky. But now they're like seltzer water burning my throat with each intake. And I can't stand the thought of how some nights I just wanted to kiss you, and now when it's all over I suddenly realize that every kiss you gave me, was an excuse to spit poison down my throat. And I hate myself right now. Not because I did anything wrong, or I drove you away because I'm used to that feeling, I hate myself because I still have everything you gave me put away in my dresser. I take your t-shirts and the boxers you gave me, and I put them underneath a pile of clothes so I don't have to look at them when I get dressed every 2pm mornings. I feel like I shouldn't throw them away just in case you change your mind or something. And I know you won't. I know the only thing left for us is forced waves in school hallways and the occasionally times you look over at me and I'm staring at you wishing I'd stop. Seeing you, someone who I used to spend hours every night talking to and saying the "I've never told anyone that before"s, just another stranger passing by. But I keep your clothes hidden anyways, just so my heart feels cracked instead of shattered. I can't throw them out. I don't want to. And you hated to see me cry. So you told me you had stopped loving me through the phone. You told me we should talk about this in person but you never called back. When you finally answered, you said you thought you made it clear. It took four months for me to love you, two months of arguments at midnight and aimlessly watching our silent dinners, one month to realize it wasn't going to work, and a five minute phone conversation for it to all fall apart.

And this relationship was like an essay, and I was like a ball-point pen. I was fresh and new, and every mistake we made, we scribbled it out, pretending it never happened. But soon enough I ran out of ink. You stopped using me. You lost me. I lost.