I had always wondered why we spent so much time in high school english class making sure everyone knew what "irony" meant. Now I reminisce back to the days when irony was just a literary device, and nothing more.

You say, "I'm sorry I know this is selfish but I don't care I'm going to be selfish anyway, I miss you and I love you."

And I want to say, "Ah yes. Love - always selfish, twisted and unkind. I have always loved you and missed you. Yeah I know, you thought you were doing this for me. And really, it did change me, and it did change me for the better, but not in the ways you thought you were helping. I changed myself for the better. I didn't have to do it without you. It was on my agenda of things to do. Honest."

I want to say, "I had cried for you thicker tears than you could imagine, and look here you are... five months later at my doorstep telling me you're sorry for all the wrong things. And you know, honestly, I would like nothing better than a picture perfect ending. I've fantasized about it. This night. Your return. But you know, in those five months I grew far more than either of us had anticipated; I learned that maybe these storybook endings didn't exist in one form or another. Maybe to get happiness we have to experience tragedy, maybe we have to work hard for just a little payoff. Maybe in the end the beauty of the story doesn't matter at all, maybe just the honesty."

I wanted to say those things, I really did.
But all I could gather together from the air particles floating around my mouth was,
"Well, it's getting late. I'm gonna go to sleep here in a bit, so I'll talk to you later."

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