I am a better artist now, you know. Ten times better than what I used to be. I can describe stuffs that you once made me feel, write that day down eloquently when we survived on red wine on the beach discussing The smiths and the likes. I can put my thoughts into lucid lines proudly. Yet every single time, in the blink of an eye, tears brew up at the corner of my eye and it hurts so so bad but it’s okay.
You made me a better listener to my inner world, more sensitive to myself, now I feel like everything gets to me, and even more when it has to do with you. Now after all this time, I don’t feel I belong to the exclusively fucked up circle, a cheap reproduction of James Dean, but a simple, old-school soul.
You taught me to save myself though it included of letting go of you, which tore me. Now, I know how to fix myself, to heal, and it wasn’t easy or quick. May be one day I’ll end up as a bald lady with enormous amount of cats when you’ll come around. But I hope, one day, I’ll find someone who loves me as much as I loved you.
The girl who had bumped into you accidentally.