How would anyone understand being young and being in love so recklessly and so deeply and so unforgivingly but us. The youth of nineteens eighteens seventeens. How it reminds me some love aren't supposed to last but nevertheless, so important to remind me I'm alive, fighting for something. Young as I could be.
Soft.
Not applying the brakes.
And I'll admit I am still so in love with you I can't, hell, I cannot tell otherwise. I still run my dirty thoughts of you and halfheartedly pray you're coming home to see me and I'll put things back in place.
Of course I can never be more wrong. That's just the whole ordeal of being young. You're wrong. You're just wrong because you're just too young. Too madly in love. That's enough to dictate the wrongfulness.
For me, the person who went to Australia that November left and I loved him. The person who came back to this deadbeat place isn't that person. And of course I am in love with the idea but not the physical embodiement.
Young and adrenaline-rushed, young and wanting to kiss. Fight now, fight, fight, fight. by 25, you'll be too old to fight for something so trivial. Young and not wanting to be forgotten. Young and knowing what love is on the surface.
Haven't stop writing of you wish I could.
