"Not sure if we could call it a date
But I love your stories and how we relate
Just when I thought it was going swell
Said you're not looking for romance, but hell"

-Breakup shoes, Unrequited Love (& other clichés)

But what will he ever think of me, amie?
Am I the elden Altschmerz dwelling in his mind?
Or the echoes of cagamosis in every lovers' quarrel?
Will I be the kind of feeling capernoited people feel like after 10 shots of pathetic vodka?
Because I'm lucky if he looks at me the same way I look at him.
I'm lucky,
if he ever sees me as the glistening apricity in the winter solstice.
I'm lucky,
if he ever thinks of me like the golden bridge made when you burn my journal pages,
I'm lucky,
yet that luck was never granted to me.
But oh,
even though my adulation for him won't be requited,
meeting him was already a blessing.