You Asked Me
You asked me if I would ever get over her. You asked me if I could ever not think, of a moment so perfect, with her. You asked me if I would ever just stop talking to her and move on, the more logical thing to do. You asked me whether I would be okay. Whether the pain was real or not. Whether my pillow would not feel like a pool anymore. Whether my tissue boxes would not get used up so quickly anymore. You kept asking, while I kept quiet. "Why aren't you saying anything?" You asked. Little did you know, and how could I tell you, that you were the one responsible for this, the one I would always refer to as 'her'.