112515

A jumble of numbers wouldn’t seem to hold so much meaning.

Looking upon it further,

It’s a date.

G̶o̶d̶,̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶’̶d̶ ̶s̶a̶y̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶m̶e̶.̶ ̶

Anyway,

It was the password to my phone for 2 years.

I’m sure it’s still the password to some old accounts I’ve forgotten about.

Maybe even the answer to a security question somewhere.

T̶h̶e̶ ̶a̶n̶s̶w̶e̶r̶.

Anyway,

I’m still not over how it ended.

I think it’s because it never ended.

̶W̶h̶y̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶e̶n̶d̶?̶

Anyway,

I was supposed to write this poem about a month ago.

When it was actually the 25th of November.

I̶t̶ ̶s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶h̶a̶u̶n̶t̶s̶ ̶m̶e̶.̶

Anyway,

I hope when you read this — if you read this — you tell me it’s too late.

You tell me that it’s over.

You actually make it seem like it’s over.

You tell me that it’s over, for real this time.

You make it seem like it is really, truly, undeniably over.

That this date is nothing more than a date.

That we were two kids in over our heads who broke each other’s heart.

That you wish that I’d forget you.

That it’s over.

̶B̶u̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶,̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶?̶

It’s over.