“Please delete my number – because I don’t want to delete you. Because I want you with a certainty that you will perhaps never possess. Because I do not have to think twice about whether I would like to answer your text messages or pick up your phone calls. Because I’m sure. Because I do not love people halfway and that’s where you and I differ. I don’t want the occasional phone call. I don’t want to play your tired-out game.
Please delete my number because I’m not going to settle for your maybes. I want concrete. I want definite. I want people who call when they say they will and show up when they plan to. I don’t want to spend my life waiting for and wasted on a person who can only love halfway.”
My exact sentiment..
Because I’m going to miss you. Because you’re going to pop into my mind on a rainy Sunday evening when Bon Iver is humming in the background and I’ve poured myself a tall glass of wine and a whiff of your old cologne catches me suddenly off guard – lingering in the apartment like an unwanted house guest who was never invited to stay.
Please delete my number. Because I’m going to want to call you when I apply for that job you always said that I should go for, or cut my hair in that way I never dared to or get that dog we always talked about getting and don’t know who to text its eager picture to. I’m going to want to call you when the Bills win and when the last snow melts and when each long, wine-saturated night draws to a close and I wish…
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