I don’t talk to you anymore.
I don’t send good morning texts to you anymore. Or say hello to you anymore whenever we meet at the hallways of our school.
I’m tired of carrying conversation. I’m tired of carrying dialogue. I’m tired of writing metaphorical words in my head, rehearsing romantic words in my head, like I’m Romeo, and you’re Juliet, and we’re in a goddamn Shakesperian play till’ we’re dead.
I’m tired. I’m just fucking tired of being the first one to talk these days. And I never knew that I’d ever say this but—I’m fucking tired of us.
Because if you wanted to talk to me—then you would.