It's absolutely absurd how frightened I get when I remember you. It scares me how I look for me in the reflections of your writing; I always find shards of what could be myself. I then find the obvious disconnect; the place where the could-have-been-me isn't me. It's horrifying how my heart races when I hear from you, or I see some silly little thing that reminds me of you. It's maddening how angry I get when I pass down Thayer street and remember it's one of your favorite places and wish I could've walked down it with you; hand-in-hand, natch. It's terrifying how I continue to pine for you in spite of obvious flaws; namely, that there's a damn red line of how much I'll ever mean to you. It's chilling how I know I'll never forget kissing you; my first, and the only one that's meant a damn thing to me so far (that shitty little bitch couldn't be as good as you on your worst day).
It makes my hairs stand on end when I remember you saying no one writes about you; because I did. And I do.
I'm not over you yet, and that scares me. But, in time, I will be.
And even when I'm over you, I'll still love you.
Azaleas, miss, and best wishes.