Maybe I write because I want to be written about.

Maybe I want someone to write about how my hair smells like eucalyptus and vanilla and a dozen other things that shouldn't go together,
But because it's me,
They do.

Maybe I want someone to stare into my eyes for a while
Because they see stories
Or songs
Or stars
Or oceans
Or storms
Or honey in tea
Or even just because they like the colors.

Maybe I give everything I think I am to someone
Because I want it back
Because I'm so conceitedly in love with the idea
That someone could love like I can
Or, more impressive,
Someone could love me that much.

Maybe that's my problem.

Or, if I even dare say it, maybe that's something that makes me beautiful.

I see, I notice, I remember every little detail about a love that I can. I treasure, I cherish, every little memory I can make with them, even the ones I know I have already forgotten.

Maybe there's beauty in the fact that I can still love at all.

Or, maybe I'm just exhausted, confused.
Maybe I'll wake up with the moon tomorrow, and she'll remind me that I'm fine on my own.
That I'm alone, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Or maybe
I still
Just
Miss you.