I fell for you at the last minute, the last second, on a likely-hot August night among my crumpled bedsheets and a dim phone screen. For about twenty days after that, you were mine.
Well now apparently I’m not yours. And since the day you arrived here I had a sour feeling in my stomach that this wasn’t going to happen. A waste of a summer. Anticipating your kisses and arms and love was pathetic of me. I was so assuming. I thought for sure this would work – so spontaneous, I was willing to be yours. And you, the one who wanted me more, left me alone in a cloud of my own wishes and our disintegrated future.
Well, I’d like to let you know that I’m done. Twenty days of being completely infatuated by you were apparently not enough. Perhaps my fault, but most likely yours.