she was so in love that she was willing to accept the bare minimum to make it work

You made a new schedule for me implicitly. That gave a whole month to always wait for the "hi" and the question, "Okay, what's the color for today?" Your way to pull everything out of my mind so the bear on it is never seen again.

Your way of questioning what happened to me, even though I myself didn't know what happened. But you said that it was crystal clear behind my voice and expressions. Well, yes, I got offended by the way you made me feel like I didn't know myself and you knew me better.

Fed me with your presence, yet you consumed what was inside my heart. In the darkest place, loneliest time, or coldest season, I just walked and had nothing in mind but your company.

In a world full of ravens, you are the one dove. Planting flowers on my things that I call home and naming it a garden. You make everything work on me. You make the spectrum work. You have made me feel drawn to you, though it was a Freudian slip.

Wanted you to be with me, to listen, to judge, to respond, to stay, to the point it all felt too much. Too much for me to ask, too heavy for you to accept, too hurtful for me in the way I realized that I was begging, that I was pestering. But nothing's quite enough when I know that I crossed your line too, something beyond what I expected, and you made me feel that twice.

Like driving a nail into a piece of wood, your schedule hurt. I asked myself many times which is which: a flaw in me that you refuse to face, or if it is just me. It did hurt. I was hurt. Overwhelmed and underfed 'cause your presence is now consuming me.

We still met in person, yet we couldn't look each other in the eye. Our eyes kept dodging. The broken garden had turned the flowers to dust. Foolish of me that I just let it. Foolish of me that I thought letting it go was the only thing that would make you reconsider us. The way I was so in love with the knowledge of your name, the way knowing your smile toward me was the one that I wanted, forgetting all of the sixth paragraph's presence to make it work.

Foolish of me, that smile of yours was something everyone could get, but you left me out of it because you didn't want me catching feelings for you, not after the way you used to talk to me about the things you liked back in the day. Funny how you protected me from yourself, knowing the truth that I was so in love that I was willing to accept the bare minimum to make it work, and you didn't want to be the one giving it.

She was me, after all.