Dear Inspiration,
We haven't spoken in thirteen days exactly. The last thing I messaged you was 'K.' And the last thing I said was "Good night, I love you."
We shouldn't have let it end how it did, I'll never not think this. It could've been so perfect if we let it, if we weren't both fuck ups. Like you said, you'd fuck it up eventually. Or that's what I'm letting you believe. Maybe I was the one who fucked up and that's why she's your inspiration now and you're still mine.
I understand though, she's prettier funnier and there's more of her to fix. You like doing that, fixing things. Whether it be your friends computer or me. It's her now, isn't it? She's more broken than me, she fascinates you more. I get it. Unfortunately, I get it.
It's killing me. Tearing me apart, plucking each and every nerve from my body. I want to speak to you. I want to whisper to you at three am again, I want you to tell me you love my heart beat, I want your friends to tell you to shut up about me again, I want to fucking love you.
Please let me love you again. Please.
