I hate how you make me feel, and I get angry knowing that I don’t get to you the way you get to me. You always weezle in and screw with my head.
We’ve been doing this weird dance for over six years now. My feet hurt, but I can’t stop moving. I keep doing my two step in hopes that I’ll one day become your only partner. I know that will never be yet, my loyalty to you remains undeniable.
You don’t call, and that’s ok. You don’t text, and I can live with that. I don’t worry about it too much because I have too many other things clouding my mind these days. Yet, late at night or even while I’m working a busy night behind the bar you creep into my brain. Thoughts of you fester, taking awhile to fizz out. It’s like a bad trip… You’re just waiting for it to be over. During those bad trips, I fight the urge to text you. I fight the urge to call you, and I’ve mastered the art of fighting these pestering urges.
I don’t listen to your music. It’s just easier that way. I don’t care to know your story because I’m not in it.