It's frustrating.

It's so frustrating

the way you seem to

so

easily vanish.

vanish from my life

and act as if nothing

happened.

Things went quick

like a terrifying storm of

emotions

that could so easily wrap me

in a blanket of 

warmth,

cold,

excitement,

adrenaline.

it's frustrating how things could

end.

and now,

here I go again.

acting like nothing even happened at all

with an overactive imagination.

I blame the creativity

where I imagine

Imagine

Imagine

the way things could have been.

Us.

You and me.

Happy,

laughing,

smiling,

going against the world together.

It's frustrating

because I want to talk,

I want to express every little thought in my mind,

and convey it to someone

but I understand.

Understand the annoyance,

the exhaustion

of obsessing over something that should be

dead.

Dead and over with.

So yes,

it's frustrating,

and we talked,

and what's even more frustrating

is the way I over-

over-

overthink

and overanalyze every

conversation that was once had.

and yes, I know

you say, "this has nothing to do with you, it's entirely me."

the oldest line in the book,

and that almost hurts more,

because It's exactly what I want to hear.

It wasn't me,

and yet, wasn't it?

wasn't it something I said,

something I did?

Something I didn't do or didn't say?

Surely, it always takes two to tango, so

what was it that went wrong?

I want to know, and yet,

I know I probably never will

so all I really can do,

is lock it up,

and try not to think

try not to overthink

which is always easier said than done.

A promise to myself that's difficult to keep

because hope,

hope while so beautiful

and bright,

and teeming with happiness for the future,

seems to only become little more than fragments

where I'm concerned.

And when tomorrow comes,

I'll run into you,

and I'll smile

I'll try my best,

and act as if nothing ever happened between us at all,

as if we never tried anything

as if you never called me a pet name

or held my hand,

or kissed my forehead with the gentleness that I always saught

out of another person,

the gentleness that I am still seemingly searching for.

How I wish, there existed a machine,

something to wipe the memories,

difficult to handle,

yet things I'm oh so fond of;

it's hard,

because they give me a

hope

that will only be broken into

a million

little

pieces.