5.

You're not worth all of this.

4.

I think of you too often. I imagine everything we could be. I think of the secrets I will tell you and the embarrassing moments you will laugh at.

Tonight, I might dream of you.

You will dream of someone else.

3.

I never understood our relationship from the start.

And maybe that is why I still hope, why I cling on to things that might not exist.

If you don't know how rain falls, you could imagine that it was the perspiration of dancing clouds.

If I don't know how much I mean to you, I could imagine that I mean the world.

2.

He will send me hearts of blue, green, yellow and purple - all but the red one. 

Perhaps it is still reserved for her, perhaps it hurts too much to open the wound. 

But who needs red? It is the colour of blood and sores, of things freshly broken. 

I am thankful for the rainbow. 

1.

I cannot tell you "you don't know how much this hurts" because you do know. You know it better than me. You reached that point of tears and walked back, slowly, bruised heart in your hand.

I am only halfway there. But it is more than enough.

It is disadvantageous to myself, to rely on your company like this.

I am guilty. I fear I use our friendship for my own secret means. But it is difficult.

This is not logical. The logical step would be to walk out. But that is difficult too. I don't want to.

There is no real pain, there are no tears, and I am not torn. I feel like I am being blanketed by what is dull and grey. It seeps into your nerves and numbs you, slightly. It is a dull pain. I feel like I am being destroyed slowly.

It is a subtle form of sorrow, the kind that is hard to complain about. There is nothing real to it, nothing sharp, nothing rusted. If it were a wound, it would be but the size of a needle's diameter. But the lifeblood trickles out slowly.

I will live and continue to live. Nothing has changed.