I wish I could spend one more night hanging out with you, then die the next morning. If I could only talk to you again and let you know I'm sorry and we'll be able to hang out like we used to at least for a little bit, I'd die so happy, I wouldn't need anything else in this world.
But, as Mumford and Sons so eloquently put it, "I really f*cked it up this time, didn't I my dear?".
The worst part is that I'm not even sure if you really don't want to see me ever again and I would be dead wrong to try and get in touch anyway, or if I'm just overdramatizing like I'm known to do and you long since stopped caring about that thing that drove us apart. My guess is that you probably don't think about it and about me anymore, but one thing that I'm not sure of is whether it is possible for you to separate me as a person from those things that would make you despise me, or is that all I am from your perspective.