Every Single Time.

If I’m done with you–if I really & truly am, as I had hoped a while ago–then why does it still hurt? Because it does; I won’t even try to tell myself otherwise anymore.

I still can’t think of you without wanting to break things, or my own head;

I still can’t think of you without wanting to cry, or holding my breath until my chest feels like it’s going to burst;

I still can’t think of you without dreaming of waking up in the morning to the sound of you brushing your teeth in my bathroom and humming along to a Superchunk song;

I still can’t think of you without wanting to jump around in my room with a stupid smile on my face as I remember how we were before, each memory still stuck on auto-replay in my head;

I still can’t think of you without wanting to turn back time & make it so that we’d either be together, or never met at all.

I still can’t think of you any other way.

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