Loving a Stranger

There is still conversation between you and me.
Even if it's in my head, it's what you would say.
But somehow, I still can't "get it."

"Why don't you love me anymore?"
"I do, I'm just so busy and I'm not ready."
"Love me."
"I do."
"Kiss me."
You do.

But somehow you can''t be mine forever. Not ever even anymore.

"When will you be ready?"
"I don't know, Courtni. It's not that easy."
Never.

I'm mad at you for letting me believe forever even existed.
I'm mad at you for being everything to me and now nothing means anything.
I'm mad at you for not letting it all be easy, like it was supposed to be.
I'm mad at you because you should be here, or I should be there, and we should be together.
I'm mad at me because it was my fault too.
I'm mad at me for never caring about myself.
I'm mad at my mom for helping me feel that way.
I'm mad at human emotion, because I should be over you by now.
I'm mad at my computer for holding your Valentine, and I'm mad at me for watching it a million times. I'm mad at the magazine, because no matter what I accomplish, you still are a part of it, and you shouldn't be.
I'm mad that I didn't have a smoothie waiting for you after you passed the BAR exam. I'm mad that some random people helped you celebrate.
I'm mad that you live in your grandmas's duplex without me.
I'm mad that I sobbed at your grandppa's funeral and I couldn't take my eyes off of you at my own grandma's funeral.
I'm mad that I have this picture in my head, of us, and a baby, our baby, and that he probably won't exist.
I'm mad that you cried when I was moving to New York and how it didn't mean anything at all.
I'm mad that we both exist, yet I'm not with you and you don't see how universes and sunsets and harmony exists for us. Only for us. For us.