hay. been a while.

You must be sav­ing the world as I write this, mak­ing it a bet­ter place for the ones like me who nev­er seem to care enough to make a dif­fer­ence. Aside from the easy things like recy­cling and sav­ing my laun­dry for large batch­es, of course, but that’s what you’d con­sid­er bare min­i­mum, and it always felt like you used some­thing like that as excuse to keep us at a dis­tance.

Maybe that’s why I’ve nev­er felt as in the way as when I was with you. It hurt to think I was only slow­ing you down, when I’d already planned so much. There were more shots to take, more cheeks to pinch, and parts of the world to explore togeth­er.

I know you need­ed a fight­er to match your heart, but that’s not why I chal­lenged you. Not cause I was a skep­tic either, but because I want­ed to be con­vinced. I want­ed to be edu­cat­ed. I want­ed you to change every pre­con­ceived notion I had of agri­cul­ture and cor­po­rate farm­ing and sus­tain­able growth with strong argu­ments and sound log­ic. But instead, you mis­took it as apa­thy and con­flict, and just gave up.

That’s why I won­der why you tried to kiss me last time, when things had already fall­en apart. And whether I should have turned around; if you would have seen you get­ting in your car and dri­ving off, or whether you would have lin­gered to see me wave through the glass. But I could­n’t look back, cause I’d had enough of you hav­ing enough of me.

The only things you left me with were a huge pur­ple bruise and three songs in my col­lec­tion, but I still need to thank you for some­thing rich and ful­fill­ing. Something that made me stronger, cause you were the only per­son to ever call them beau­ty marks, the only one to tru­ly make me feel impor­tant and desir­able and val­i­dat­ed.

That’s prob­a­bly why I think of leav­ing some­thing in the Dropbox fold­er to find one day. Something sweet and nice and com­plete­ly hope­less. But I real­ize it’s not cause I still like you. It’s cause I miss the idea of lik­ing you, the idea of hav­ing some­thing oth­er than all this mis­spent love.


    • No, but I did buy that mous­tache and plush heart from Shannon one time, and imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­nized her hand­writ­ing. I love her artis­tic style; it’s unique, detailed yet mys­te­ri­ous, and always uncliché. I can tell why you showed me this, after read­ing a few.

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