Love. A four letter word, sometimes said too early and sometimes said too late. You said you loved me. They way I could write for hours on end intrigued you. You said I was unique, you said you loved that my hand was always stained with blue ink from the hours spent at my journal. You loved the way I wrote about the small freckles on your face, you said you loved the way I wrote about how your eyes twinkled when you smiled at me, and the way your smile formed so effortlessly when you heard your favorite song. You fell in love with a writer. But you shouldn’t have. You can’t love a writer. Because when you break a writers heart, all they will write about is the way you twiddled your thumbs on the steering wheel while waiting for the light to turn green. You can’t love a writer because when you break their heart they will spend hours writing about you until their palms bleed. Don’t fall in love with a writer because I wrote more about the things you did rather than the words leaving your mouth. I should’ve paid more attention to things you said, and not how many freckles you had or how you preferred the sun over the rain. Maybe then you would’ve stayed.

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