I’m done writing about you.
I’m done pinning my delusional daydreams along the curve of your spine. Done letting your ghost trace my hidden anxieties with icy fingers, kissing the silhouette of unfulfilled promises. I’m done howling underneath your full moon only to retire back to my den alone, a lone wolf. I’m done looking for you when I have no fucking clue where you are.
I’m done romanticizing goodbyes, reimagining the last time you walked out my door with some melancholy soundtrack. Like maybe if I give this shit some cinematic twist, I’ll get my happy ending eventually. I’m done crying to Landslide. I’m a damn cliché.
I’m done with bitter words that are just a poorly covered façade. My gooey insides are just hoping they can go incognito for just a little longer.
I’m done justifying why you left. Done playing Russian Roulette with our memories. Like…
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