So, I’m here, right? And you’re there.

I’m here reading these text messages of how sorry you are. Always sorry once you realize I’m gone.
And you’re there writing these messages, probably busy doing other things.
I’m here, thinking that you’re the bad guy but you want to mean it.
You’re there, thinking you do.

But then, I’m here all by myself, crying, and I have seen the deepest parts of my soul that only come out when I truly am unable to pick myself up. The darkest corners only show when I’m broken.

And you’re there… living. Not being sorry. Not changing. Actively breaking your promises.

So then I’m here

And you’re… not here. In fact, you’re anywhere but here, happily.

But, I’m .still. here. Cleaning the messes that you made. You did this to me and the worst part? I let you.

As for me: One day I will be there, or there, or the coast. And you’ll be here looking for me but I’ll be gone without the ability to turn around and see if you’re here because I’ll be too busy not being here.

So as I sit, here, I’m saying hello to the cob webs left over from the last time and then I finally realize: I’ve had worse.

I’ve had more painful things to break over. I’ve had harder things, realer things happen to me and you are not close to meaning what those things meant to me.

Soon, it won’t matter that you’re there while I’m still hopelessly and inconsolably, here. You can be there. I’ll just be here but you’re not welcome here anymore and I will never want to be there with you, again.

So, instead I’m just here… Alright?

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