Remember back when we was young you fourteen me fifteen, reckless and dangerously in love. Happy until we wasn't—together until we wasn't. I hate the fact that I broke your heart, just to now try and be the broom and the dustpan that sweep up the pieces and be the glue that help put and hold it together again. I want us to be a thing again so bad, even if it means ignoring the hollowed out emptiness of where your love for me use to live. Even if it means ignoring the vacant loads of emotions followed by the abandoned vessels of passion and compassion. Even if it means ignoring the fact that you no longer consider me your first love erasing my existence forever. I still see marriage but you can't even see the "M". You play off my emotions as if you're getting some type of revenge while still claiming you just want to be friends. Your now poisoning love will certainly be the death of me. But you're already dead. Been dead—and cease to exist....
