I write because you exist,

And “you” exist because I write about you.

I turned you into a character,

Someone I could keep in the palm of my hand and bring out when 4am rolled around and I felt alone.

I made you someone new,

Maybe someone you’d like to be,

Someone I know I wanted you to be.

I romanticized your bad behavior and cigarette addiction,

I morphed your disloyalty into adoration with commitment issues,

Convinced my mind that complicated meant, “meant to be”,

And dysfunctional meant, “worth it”.

I realize now that unhealthy just means unhealthy,

And passionate doesn’t mean deserving;

That begging for attention isn’t romantic,

And neither is smelling her perfume on the collar of your shirt.

You taught me how to feel inadequacy and vulnerability,

That human beings aren’t characters, no matter how hard we try,

That damaged doesn’t mean repairable,

And some people are just broken.

Waiting isn’t always rewarding, it’s insufficient;

That being with someone who gives you something to write about isn’t always what you need.

He’s taught me that falling in love doesn’t have to be falling,

And it doesn’t have to hurt.

That love doesn’t rely on being at the right place at the right time,

And it doesn’t have to end when it’s the wrong time.

It’s always having something to miss,

Always having someone to come home to,

Even if home isn’t a place, but a chest and his hand on the small of my back.

That I should float in a world of happy,

Sleeping in tiny bedrooms and waking up at 2pm,

With the taste of his laughter on my tongue and his hands in my hands.

Always growing up instead of down,

Falling in love to the sound of police sirens,

With admiration and enthusiasm,

With who is right,

With myself and my life - for the first time in too long.