He Was My

He was my wrong first impression.
My ‘I don’t think you’re his type’.
My ‘they’re wrong, you are’.
My Call Of Duty frienemy. My after class rendezvous.
My library secret. My bite marks and stolen kisses
behind bookshelves. My rooftop kiss. My tear-stained confession. My ‘I don’t know what we are’. My whirlwind confusion. My right or wrong, friends or lovers.
My giving in. My finally. My sigh of relief.
He was my first.
My cold shower that woke my tired bones.
My medicine. My wake up call.
My shaky hands and trembling ribcage.
My yes. My more. My now and tomorrow.
My I can’t get enough.
My favorite hoodie. My bareness. My solitude.
My chaos. My going to sleep mad.
My unanswered phone calls.
My this is getting hard. My I’ll still stay.

He was my undoing.
My I’m trying. My jealousy. My pushing until we broke.
My fire exit fights. My deafening silence.
My you’re not trying hard enough.
My please stay. My wreckage.
My begging 18 floors. My please don’t.
My come back. My please, don’t give up.

He is my past tense. My was, once and used to.

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He Was My

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