Impróprio

It's funny, almost incongruent that I still think about you.

I think about what you must be doing, with whom and why.

I think about what clothes you're wearing, and mostly how your hair looks like.

Of all of these things I think about your hair the most. How it hangs around your beautiful head, as though it was kissing your scalp.

Your hair and your smile.

And then it dawns on me the fact that I will never able to have you, to have you thinking those same things about me or even looking at me the same way I look at you.

And it's not your fault.

You just can't feel the same, because you're not the same.

I'm still, after all these years, the only one to blame.