Apathy

I knew that you where going to break my heart, but I would be lying if I said I'm not enjoying every bit of this sadness.

I mean, being heartbroken was the whole point of loving you.

And then one Monday (of course), when you think you are all over it, that you have healed and even forgotten that he's not here, you'll see a picture of him on the newspaper, while riding the bus back home...

And you will cry your eyes out.

We miss you, Mr. Stardust.

11|11|11

It's not like I care, really.

I don't think of you every day. Not at all. It's not like I'd love to share every little thing with you either.

I don't think of you riding the tube with me, talking about everything and nothing. I don't get all nostalgic about holding hands on the street. Or laughing together walking on the shore. 

I don't get all excited about reading my favourite book to you, or listen to music while we lay down in bed.

And I absolutely don't miss you every day. I don't crave your lips every hour. Your eyes every minute. I don't desire you every single second.

I really don't.