i'm writing about someone else now,
not that you'd care, of course.
i'm holding someone else's hand now,
gripping onto it, even.
you don't need to know these things.
you don't need to know my happiness.
why am i telling you this?
why am i referring to you?
i swear i'm not doing this to spite you.
i'm doing this for myself.
i'm starting to love myself now.
wasn't that what you wanted?
they're helping me too.
their smile helps me a lot.
so why
why am i writing this?
why do i want you to know this badly?
you're my best friend.
the us is long gone.
there's another us now
but not you and i
why do i want you to know how i'm doing?
why do i feel the need to inform you,
of how happy they make me?
of how my heart dances around them,
on how they hug me so tight —
that everything just feels so right?
you don't deserve to know my happiness
you're the reason it died in the first place
