We’re over. I’m dating someone else. I know you’ve gotten over me. After all, you were the one who ended it. I still don’t know what went wrong.
He’s a great person. He cares for me, and I couldn’t ask for anyone better. Hell, he’s probably better than you could’ve ever been. We talk nonstop for hours about everything under the sun. He holds me tightly, and when he hugs me on a cold day, I feel warm immediately. When he kisses me, his stubble brushes my cheek, softly tickling my skin. Strange, but I could touch his face forever. When he touches me, it’s almost as if he’s desperately grasping my heart, unsure of what to do with it. His kisses are forceful, and his passion burns.
He isn’t you.
To be honest, I believe our love revolved around romance and passion, but mainly lust. Despite this, we got by nine months. I believed that at the time, it was the best nine months of my life.
We knew our bodies like the back of our hands. More like you could read me like an open book. Despite that, you always remained a mystery to me. Your experience shined when you touched me, as if every girl reacted the same way I did. If you kissed me here, licked me there, touched me like that, then I fell apart in your arms, ready to be used. I found that pretty sad, for I never thought I could be so vulnerable again after what had happened to me. I hated how you could easily make me cry, as well as make me cry out.
Was I just another call girl to you? We made love so many times that both of us lost count. When I asked why you loved me, you never answered. Maybe I should’ve taken the hint.
He isn’t you. I couldn’t have asked for anyone better.