You know I was never good for you.
Sure, you say I was, but we both know you’re wrong about that (and only that.)
You list the few good things. I point out the rest–none of which qualify as anything near good. I’d bring up every failure quality I have and you’d just say we’re human. You’d bring up the ways we’ve bonded. I just think: couldn’t you have with anyone? Are those things honestly unique to us?
Where are we now? I’m hurting and you’re off doing your own thing. Did you notice when I simply vanished? (I hoped you wouldn’t.) I’d rather you didn’t have to worry.
Don’t ask me if this is goodbye, because right now–with every surging thought like a rapid ocean of fears and uncertainty pulsing through my body, every regret I’ve ever held onto surfacing like splintered planks of drift wood only big enough to give me hope and let me drown–
you wouldn’t like the answer (and neither do I.)
Only you were ever good (enough) for me.