The last thing I'll ever write for you:
Sympathy doesn't fit me so well as the thought of you dying alone, but we're dying together. I find that I'm burning with things to say, but not to you. We don't spark like we used to; you were the last vestige of me clinging to high school, but I let you go for a good reason. You left a bad taste in my mouth, and it's apparent that nothing has changed since we last spoke. I still feel like talking to you is like walking the plank and I wish it wasn't like that but I'm walking on broken glass to meet you halfway and you keep breaking bottles. I want to feel the warmth and goodness that comes from young love, but not with you. This is me leaving you standing in the rain just like last time, only this time it's for good.