What if

Sunday, February 15th, 2015

Dear C,

It's been one month since I first wrote about my knees giving in on Allen Street; I was doing a better job of managing all of this back then, when I could still smell you on my pillows. You feel so far away now, I find myself wondering if you're even real. I see you in a t-shirt in my iPhoto, smiling while sipping from a Solo, but it's hard to believe the person in those pictures still exists in a world separate from mine. I spend so much time trying to imagine how you're doing, what you're up to, whether you hate me or, worse, don't think of me at all. But much of what I think about is myself. I can't stand it. The very act of this writing is quite selfish, leaving aside how intrinsically self-centered it is. That was often an issue though - how consumed I was with myself. I didn't mean to be. But I know intentions don't change anything, because if they did we'd be together.


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