I will regret you, I will regret you no matter how many times you change your name, I will regret: long days not of finding the sun because I didn’t think that I needed the warmth; breathing words my body ached and ached to mean into your ears; letting you press me, press me so much more than I’ve ever wanted to be pressed with you you you you you; thinking about summer sky eyes; thinking about scrawled ivory arms impatiently waiting around my waist; feeling like I can’t get close enough to you, because it’s been a week of lying restlessly on my grandmother’s carpet waiting for the phone to vibrate in my ready palm.
I hate you, I will always hate you, no matter how different your letters turn at a ‘sign here’ note, because even if they do, you will still be you- summer ocean eyes, lies tentatively resting upon clichés in your mouth, pale boney fingers, a pocket list titled “the many ways to make her ache”, and a collarbone stretched inconsiderately across your chest (skin spread over like thin thin icing).
(I have so much more to this letter, but I think that this is enough.)
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