Even though I fucking hate you.
I’ll never find anyone more perfect for me then you. At least that’s how I feel most of the time. I wont think about you for weeks, maybe a month or so, but you’ll always find your way into conversation one way or another. I can’t sit on a curb, or listen to a song, or even read my favorite book anymore, without just being completely and utterly sad things turned out the way they did. We could have be great together. I guess I’m hoping you’ll read this, and either feel guilty and drive off a bridge, or call me and we’ll drive off the bridge together.






