Where are you? I mean, I won’t rush you, but seven billion people, one hundred ninety five countries, fifty states, thirteen colonies, two people, one me, one you and we’re both lost. I see your name pop up on my screen but I can’t see your face at my front door (you’re probably stopped at a red light). The excuses I made for you like I was your accomplice made me the victim in the crime scene. I’ll hold all of this thing called ‘us’ in my bare hands and with an empty chest just full of air, I’ll exhale and make you the wind in my hair that I pretend I don’t romanize. You made everything seem weird, and since I apparently am too, I gaslit myself into thinking everything was perfect because it’s always what could’ve been and never what was.
Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve: what I think about often. If nothing ever happened, I ponder what could’ve been but not as much as I wonder what happened on your side. What did I do to you? Why did you do this? You’re not the only person who questions everything with “why”.
