I think I loved him.

I think I loved him.

I don't think it was in the same way I'd loved other guys.
I didn't dream about him becoming my husband.
I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with him.
I didn't even care if he was mine.
But I do think I loved him.

I think I loved his looks.
I loved every haircut he got.
I loved his guilty smirk.
I loved the crevaces of his body that intertwined with mine.
I think I loved him.

I think I loved all the things we did together.
I loved making out in the back of his car.
I loved the things we could talk for hours about.
I loved how we argued like an old married couple.
I think I loved him.

Even the things I didn't want to love,
Him always being caught up in another cloud or another pill,
Him constantly wavering between confidence and cowardess,
Him so quickly treating me like an object,
I still think I loved.

I could get over all these things because,
I loved the way he broke down, and the tears that came with,
I loved the way he shook my father's hand,
I loved the way he drove.
I think I loved him.

I think I loved him.


I was thinking about this in the car the other day. This kid was never someone I got to call mine, or even needed to call mine. I came to the realization that I just cared for him a great deal, and I still worry about him all the time. He started getting into drugs and that's when I went from very close flirty friend to just another escape. I wanted to help, but I couldn't. Once I became a drug to him, I was no longer a friend. I no longer had a voice. And I never got to let out the frustration of this "break up" of sorts because he was never mine in the first place. It's been a long time of sitting on regret.

I hope someone else can relate to this out there.