I wish we could be more than this.
What we have is simply the worst chapter of my most hated book.
I’ve read it a million times but I keep hoping for a new ending.
Maybe an ending where it’s not always me losing sleep thinking about where I messed up.
Maybe I messed up by saying I love you too early.
Maybe I messed up by loving you.
Our story has a wicked author.
Our story is a mess.
Our story is too much of nothing and lacking everything.
Our story is much more than the realities of my fiction; inches are miles and hours are minutes, always messing up our internal maps and we never meet halfway.
I can’t even call it our story, because according to rules of grammar “our” pertains to two or more and right now I’m alone.
I wonder how long will it take before I stop.
If this was Alice in Wonderland, I’ve already hit rock bottom but I’m still falling.