Sometimes I wonder if you think that it's me sending messages into the universe hoping to reach you. You, who are approximately 6,400,000 steps away from me. You, where the buildings are tall and the streets are noisy. You, with a life quite different than mine yet somehow similar.
No. I wouldn't. I couldn't go back now. I promised myself that I'd never do that again. It took me a long time to figure out that I was in love with you and even longer to figure out how that happened in the first place. I have concluded it was your words, which so easily rolled off your fingertips, turning me to Jell-O with simple keystrokes. I never even met you, yet I gave myself completely and freely.
I wasn't prepared. I often wonder if breaking my heart was easy or if it was difficult, like hitting yourself in the thumb with a hammer. I bet you didn't even think twice about it. You are the master of game playing and, to you, I was just the latest version.
You just
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But I am not your stalker. I don't write you words of longingness and missingness and lovingness. I can't and I won't. Not in a MILLION years. It hurts too damn much. I only visit that other place to peek through the window of life, to see if I can catch a glimpse of your beauty (just one more time) as you meander by.
But what I want to know is this . . .
. . . . . . is that you writing to me?