we thought we knew eachother once, but then we realized, we knew nothing.


And you told me that you didn't know like it was the hardest thing and I hated you for your indecision. Funnily enough, though, there had never been a question. I just looked and looked at you and you told me you didn't know and it killed me to hear you say it.

But I didn't know either – didn't know who you had become and why you did this. When had your heart had gone missing and was it coming back? You couldn't answer my questions but you drank coffee in my kitchen and lit it ablaze with pictures, keeping the ashes safe in a box. You said maniacal things to me, like that you would leave and never come back.

What if we were all like you?

What if we all sat up until midnight to write about grief and understanding (and the lack thereof )? What if we were all lovers and misanthropes, and paradoxical and did crazy things?

What would we ever know? Sugar, what would we ever know?

But what if we were all like me? What if we all stayed up till 11:11 to wish on repeating numbers? Small and scared and dreaming, reckless and hopeless and thoroughly confused.

If we were auto-phobic and emotional, the world would know the sadness of blank pages and back pain from a heavy heart, as opposed to the extreme philosophy and untamed logic you offer.

The world would know nothing.