I haven&rsquo;t told you this, but to me, you are a bunch of Taylor Swift lyrics bundled into one. You are every line of every verse, the titular example of every album. Your eyes seem enchanted, your lips are as red as a rose, your smile continues to haunt me during midnights, and your entire being feels like a folklore. The type of love you gave was fearless, and in moments where it grew, it felt like we were evermore.&nbsp;
Or so I thought.
It was mindless of me to think that the lyrics etched on your skin were all romantic. I&rsquo;ve forgotten that although I can remember you through the cheesiest love songs, your memories can also come to me through the most heartbreaking tracks. God, the double-edged sword really strikes harder, &lsquo;no? The songs I used to love the most are the songs where the ghost of you lingers now, and I tried my best to convince myself that it&rsquo;s not a good thing. Remembering you in that light is idealistic, irresponsible, and a step closer to running back into your arms. Which, again, is not a good thing.
Looking back, it&rsquo;s funny how I even once thought that you might be the personification of &ldquo;Lover.&rdquo; My lover, to be exact. Seems like I just received the newsflash a little too late, though&mdash; you weren&rsquo;t mine to begin with. I can&rsquo;t go where you go, and I can never have you close because when December's cold wind came, your warmth instantly washed away. And I can&rsquo;t have it back.&nbsp;
I can never have you back. (I shouldn&rsquo;t, in the first place.)
How foolish it was to hope for forever when the only thing you offered was fleeting.
How hurtful it was to realize that it must be a curse of a tortured poet to perpetually write about missing you.