Third time's the charm.

I feel obligated to preface this by saying that I am due to speak of "love" here shortly, and apparently there are individuals who have a problem with that. I would like to remind people who read my words that reading is a personal choice, and no one is forcing you to do so. If you have a problem with me, don't associate with me. It's as simple as that. So you may either close the tab or disagree and criticize silently. Or, if you truly feel a need to vocalize or express such negative opinions, then you clearly have some deep-rooted issues you need to sort out, and you should consider a journal or a shrink. I'm happy to help with the funds for either. Thank you.


You're the goosebumps on my arms when I read Shakespeare.


And I hate the way my feet fall asleep when I cry.

It's like when Radiohead runs all the way through my hair and all I can hear is your voice saying, "It's just you and me for always, Mea."

There's nothing quite like gulping in oxygen in -8 degree weather to wake you up from the coma that your last heartbreak put you in.

I remember the calluses on your hands because they were real.
And the freckles on your left ear because they were perfect.

My memory is a haunted place.

But I just tell myself, "One more song. You can run for one more song." And then eight songs later, I'm five miles in and "there's no point stopping now."

I wish I would have taken more pictures of your face. And spent my money on others instead of myself, because that's what you always said was the most important thing: giving.
I wish I would have put my hands up and trusted the roller coaster to hold onto me through the loops.

I should have kissed you more and hit you less.

Everyone says "stop pretending" but I can only be real when I'm watching The Truman Show or yelling at you because you got a stain on my Biggie Smalls shirt.

Oh, how I will miss that love.
And I will even miss that hate a little, too.


And if there's ever another, God please let it be Ryan Gosling.