Whiplash.

Don’t tell me I should know this.
When it comes to you, I’ve never been certain of anything.
You are wildly frustrating, and relentlessly unpredictable
I have carried your silence, your humour, your sweetness
In my fingertips, and every time I touch you
I gamble on which side of you I’m going to get.
I spent the better part of a short-lived romance
Trying to guess your next move
And I was almost always wrong.

You gave me whiplash,
And I justified it with the journey.

Somedays, I try to imagine how you look at me.
Like a close friend – a friend – sometimes less than that
Other times you look at me and I imagine that maybe
You never even understood yourself
What you felt for me.
Other days you tell me –
You tell me to stop comparing, to stop measuring
That I was something close to damn near confusing
That I was a combination of two things
You never expected you’d find in me.

You tell me I win,
And I have absolutely no idea what my prize is.

You ask if I can think in black and white,
Or only ever grey.
We both know the answer to this, don’t we?

How do you take something so intricate
So delicate and impactful
And summarize it into a sentence?

You spend all of your time looking forward
But don’t you ever wonder if you’re leaving something important behind?

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