I hope you know...

I hope you know, you fucked it up.

When you pick up that phone to text me a quip about your day, I hope you hesitate a little with regret before putting it back in your pocket. When you smile at an inside joke that is brought to light by something you see on the street, I hope you cringe a little inside at the thought of what you ruined.

When you hope there's someone there for you, when you ache not to feel alone and unloved--when you want someone to reach out to, but they're already gone, I hope you remember: you caused this pain.

I'm not trying to harp on you (or maybe I am), for I know that words hold no meaning anymore to situations like these. Words are empty, words are hollow, and--for all the power they hold--they can't fix it. And, my dear, they can't fix you.

I'll move on, I suppose. Mourn a little less every day, try to push those thoughts of you from my mind--try not to wonder what you're doing or think about what we had--brief as it was, real or not. Someday, I'll grow old and tired of this mindset, move on to the next good thing in my life, and appreciate what you did do for me--what we did for each other.

Until then, though: I hope you walk around the streets at night on your own, flipping your phone in your hand and debating calling me and apologizing for hours before your bitter pride gets the best of you. I hope there are moments--those terrible, bittersweet, truthful moments--where you're alone in your house, or car, or at work--when you break down inside and pray to God you lose the ability to grasp what you lost. Where you hang your head in your hands, pushing away the migraines and the troubled dreams and the occasional tears that prickle at the corner of your eyes, and you know--know then, more than ever--that you fucked this up.