I have always been great at making lists,
Colour coding different tasks and beautifying them only to strike them off once the job was done,
It gives me a sense of satisfaction, as though the more tasks I complete; the more I had achieved.
Some days I wonder if your list comprised only of the names of girls you once knew.
“Good writers”, they said, “don’t have to struggle with their words.”
But you and I both knew that unless each syllable felt like a fight against your own dragons, the outcome was just not worth it.
So we find synonyms, all the different ways to tell each other “I don’t love you anymore” until words can no longer explain where it hurts.
Kissing you is like finding ecstasy, only with fear and insecurity thrown into the mix,
As though we have been running for so long, we’ve gotten good at hiding from our destination.
The real question is, did we even have one?
I try to write apologies more than anything,
I don’t think I’ll even know why that is but “I’m sorry” seems to be the easiest place to start.
Maybe I’ve gotten used to making excuses. Hiding under the belief that this is as good as it gets.
It may be a while before my words start making sense again,
Because when they do,
Maybe I’ll finally be able to say goodbye.