There are so many questions I would ask you,
if only we’d had more time and if only you hadn’t given up on me.
Maybe if I’d had my epiphany just a few days sooner
or maybe if I’d been more intriguing,
your eyes would still light up for me like they used to.
Maybe if you had spoken honestly
or maybe if I hadn’t been so afraid to make the jump,
our lives wouldn’t have tangled up into this knotted, irreparable mess.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t hold your interest,
but I’m even sorrier that I tortured you
while you attempted to tease me into submission.
I’m sorry that I’m not like other girls,
that I can’t smile and laugh when I’m supposed to,
and I’m terribly sorry that you had the misfortune of making the risky bet on my sanity.
But if you forgive me for all of my shortcomings,
it won’t make sleep come any easier at night.
I’ll still overanalyze, overcompensate, and re-evaluate
each second of our abrupt kind-of-sort-of friendship,
thinking of each secret smile and imagined hug.
I’ll try to remember the giddiness, the warmth,
the anticipation, the easiness—if any of it ever really existed,
or if I only imagined it to comfort myself
in my silly, lonely bitterness.
Pages of books are filled with journeys like ours.
Maybe, in the grand scheme of things,
we are just another teenage cliché.
Or maybe we aren’t even that.
Maybe we were really nothing, nothing at all,
and you were just the deluded fantasy
that filled a blank page in this year’s chapter.
There are so many questions that I would ask you,
but the time is past
and I am too tired to dig up the memories that have finally, slowly started to fade.