The worst thing that I ever did
was what I did to you
I mean
I have so much to say
but no clue how to say it
I haven't looked at myself
the same since you left.
I mean
I hate that you have to heal
from things that are my fault
and that you still die
a hundred times
that last night in my arms
I mean
if our story is over,
why I am still writing these pages?
I'm still blaming myself.
I'm still writing books
worth of what could've been.
I mean
every once in a while
I (accidentally)
remember how in love
with you I was
I mean
it feels less like "I miss you"
and more like "please come home"
Love,
with all the regrets
I could name
after hope