It’s awkward (falling out of love with you)

I tried it again—this thing called love—with you.

You called me late one Thursday

 

to tell me all about how I lead you on.

(Didn’t mean to, I swear.)

 

You should know if you don’t appear in my stories—it just isn’t that deep.

We were only kids when we fell—our knees scraped on our dependency.

 

Getting back together felt like syncing idiosyncrasies—but it was only idiocy.

My iTunes library reminds me of you/I wonder if libraries remind you of me.

 

My friend tells me she can’t stop writing about love

and I just can’t write at all.

 

Irony found in the idea that love follows me everywhere

but it does not appear to reach the tip of my pen.

 

Maybe I never actually knew love.

You can’t write what you don’t know.

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