I’m going to regret staying up so late when I wake up in the morning;

But something in me had to look at our shared photos;
I had to scroll all the way to the bottom, and see you two years ago;
I needed to find some sort of evidence to support the idea that at one point, maybe you loved me;
Because it always ends this way;
With me scrolling, and you following up with dead silence;
I’ve been circling my room, pressing my shoulder to the wall;
I’m determined to drive myself mad;
You’ll pity me if I’m mad and then maybe you’ll reach out;
But I can’t hope for silly things like that;
Even though I can’t help but hope it’s you when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket;
I know it won’t be, but there’s a glimmer every time;
It kills me;
I can’t snuff it out;
I burn myself every time I try;
So here I am waiting for my millenial pink nail polish to try;

My Betty Cooper persona to solidfy;

(This makes you Archie, doesn't it?);
Typing this poem on my computer without having written it down;
Because if I write all this down, I’ll think too much;

About car rides and music blasting;

Ice cream and boardwalks;

La La Land and roadtrip plans;

Beautiful sunsets and broken dinner promises;
I don’t want to think about you anymore;
But I look back on old pictures;
I look back on everything we’ve ever been;
And realize that if our relationship were a John Green novel;
I’d be an unreliable narrator;
Convinced I’d marry you;
Convinced I’d finally found someone who’d light the spark that’d never die;
I’m left hoping you’ll get a taste of your own medicine;

I'm left hoping the heartburn fades away;
Because I’m still unreliable.
I want my copy of Jane Eyre back.
It’s my favorite book.
If you ever took the time to read it,
you’d know why.