Everything that we are not, and will never be.
As much as I want to go back, I don't.
There are things that I wanted to leave and never have to see again.
There are feelings that I didn't want to resurrect from their long time grave.
There are situations that must be faced, that I can not even think on.
I know how this story is supposed to end.
And I'll let it - end, that is.
But let these words be mine
And let me say them how I choose:
With vehemence, or sorrow, or something deep and stronger still --
Something more than malice or heartache could hold.
-- The left over fire of a passionate soul:
I love you still.
I hope you're happy.
You, with all the words off your chest.
You, with a pair of ready arms to fall into.
You, safe at a distance of a million miles away.
I hope you're glad I read what you wrote
sitting in an overcrowded bus in a strange city;
tired and alone.
I hope it gives you joy to know that I was brought to tears
amidst the strangers, the hard plastic chairs and the bright city lights.
Surrounded so fully, and yet, more alone then I've ever been.
Infuriated by your selfishness, your timing:
Everything you were and weren't and won't ever be to me.
I hope you find delight in the way you've played me so completely,
and the wicked way you reached to pull me back just as I let you go.
And I hope you are pleased to know that I don't care.
I've ripped the blinders from my eyes and you don't own me anymore.
I do not love you still.