I quickly type out a message.
Not knowing if there will ever be a response.
A sharing of ideas.
Of people. And of old jokes.
For a moment everything is perfect.
But then the jokes turn to questions.
And the questions...
A half apology is spoken
For not being good enough.
But it's not really an apology.
Because it's a secret hope that you will say otherwise.
I am surprised
When you tell me not to say things like that.
That I was good enough
And that I deserve better than you.
Because I have done far more wrong
And I deserve so much less than you could know.
And you don't know
That I honestly feel she is more worth it for you.
That I was never worth your time.
And that all that time I was more attuned to your departure
Than I was willing to fight for you.
Because I am used to people who leave.
And you... despite everything,
Are just like all those before.