another year, another heartache. another year, another love. this life really is something, isn't it? the people that so easily become a second part of you/complete strangers within days. the incessant daydreams breaking you down never actually happen/the one thing you'd never had bet on miraculously does. stolen kisses & letters in envelopes/midnight rendezvous & birthday cake. make sense of it all, i dare you. are you even real? did any of that actually happen or am i simply imagining how just thinking about that moment still gives me butterflies/butterflies that are threatening to escape. another year, another post. this is it, right? the beginning of the end/the beginning of it all; then again, i've been saying that since i was sixteen. who's the dramatic one now?
is she happy? i think i'll be just fine.
is she happy? i think i'll be just fine.
