To the poem I never wrote…

I miss you.
I know that may mean nothing to you now, but like much of our relationship, this is about me and not you.

Are you well?
I know you are. I see you everywhere.
I look for you everywhere.
Sometimes when I’m mindlessly scrolling, there you are.

I don’t want to bother you.
I know that I can only remind you, of what we had. The real truth is that I want what we almost had, romantic speak for what we never had but you somehow found.

Do you remember?
I know you don’t want to, but you must. So that in nostalgia, I can make you hurt, if but a fraction of how I feel. This is easier than accepting responsibility and leave you well enough alone to live your best life.

Think of me.
I know you won’t but I hope I have convinced you enough to haunt you. Your life is amazing now, and if I cross your mind then maybe I can have a sliver of that amazingness.

You were right.
I know that now. Only in so far as saying that will validate you. And allow me to use it as a crutch should you come back. And I revert to default.

I was not ready for you.
I know that I was ready get you but not for the responsibility and the vulnerability it would take to stay with you. You are right to move on.

I’m sorry.
I know you. I know me. You have made it so I can write again. Not the way I wrote you. In the way that poem chooses to be written.

The Doppelganger.

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