We push overselves over the edge, back into the pain. We push because we want to feel, we want the familiarity and we want to know we're still who we were. The hurt keeps us together, it reminds of what we had in that foreign moment and what could have been. The luring comfort of my pain is what takes us under. We could easily cast it out, and busy our minds with other pleasantries, yet we want the heartache. We want the real. We want to know we truly felt something even if it wouldn't last the year. It could never last the year... The pain marks us, because at least we can pin point a time in which we had something dear enough to scar, to cause hurt, and to leave us different than before.

You left me different than before. You loved me. And I did you. it was silly to think overwise. Not saying our love should have lasted longer, oh darling it ran its course, but the air of it all, of our life, was still heavy with our tensions and with our heat. We'll both find another, but you will always be my first, and w