I think I’m too tired for this. I feel wearied and over it and bored with myself because here we go again and why would it, could it, ever be any different than it’s been. And when will I ever learn to just let it go. To let it go and to let it be okay, let it be soft and faded and something as lackluster as I think it probably was but didn’t realize at the time. Let me love you in the abstract, in a way that I remember absently, in passing, in a way that can never ever be painful. And you too. There’s no reason to see me. There’s no reason to ask how I am, to be earnest and hopeful and write every note like it’s the last, like there’s something that can still be broken. There’s barely a reason to care because a part of me doesn’t/can’t/will never believe that you ever really did. So let it all go. I’m forever trying do the same.