I have a rough draft all typed out

of what I’d say to you

if I ever got the courage

to tell you how I really feel.

It’s sitting there in my notes,

and I see it everyday.

It’s short and sweet

and would easily fit into a text,

but this is me we’re talking about,

and I’ll never be brave enough

to bare it all

and just straight-up tell you what I want.

But I still get this notion

that I’ll change someday,

and it’ll be this big thing

like you see in the movies,

and maybe I’ll get another shot with you,

as if that would solve all my problems.

It’s really stupid.

And I keep asking myself,

why

do

I

still

feel

this

way

if

we’ve

barely

talked

in

four

months?

I’m not asking you,

I’m asking the universe

why

do

you

still

mean

so

much

to

me

when

I

mean

nothing

to

you?

It’s really stupid.

There’s no other word for it,

just stupid.

And I have this big fantasy

that one night I’ll send you that text

and you’ll wearily check your phone

ask me if I’m okay

and I’d open up to you

and you’d do the same for me

and then you’d ask me out to lunch the next day

and we’d meet in this little coffee shop

one that’s all cozy and intimate

and has a booth just for us

and we’d order sandwiches

but we’d just let them sit there

because we’d be too nervous to eat.

You’d wear that shirt I always loved

and I’d wear a striped sweater with sleeves that cover my hands as I hold the handle of my coffee mug

my hair would be piled on the top of my head

bags under my eyes

I’d look like hell

but you wouldn’t mind

and then we’d just talk

about everything

and it’d be perfectly spoken

with all the right pauses and dramatic eye contact

like a movie

it’d all be very cliche

and then you’d take my hands in yours

and say you’re sorry

and I would too

and we’d leave that restaurant as friends

knowing we’d eventually get back together

and I’d walk home smiling

as the credits roll.

But that’s not real life

and instead of stupid coffee shop fantasies

all I have is tantrums

within the confines of my bedroom

screaming,

pounding,

bleeding pain in my head

so enraged at myself

for leaving you.

I should have never done that

and look at what I have now.

Nothing.

And while I wasn’t always happy with you

I’d rather be miserable at your side

than be angry and alone.

But I’m not going to have you again.

Fuck the coffee shop

and fuck the sandwiches we didn’t eat

fuck confessions

fuck that rough draft text

and fuck me

because all I want it that perfect scene

but because I left you

it’ll always be
just a fucking fantasy.