In retrospect, every letter I wrote after that, paled in comparison. The lines were often repeated, each time pretending to be at least AS meaningful as the original delivery. There’s no denying it, the only time I ever was sincere was when I wrote those lines for you. The pretentious strokes were nothing but poorly manufactured replications of relatively pleasant thoughts. I thought it wouldn’t be called settling if I somehow exaggerated the subsequent flings situations.
Truth be told, I never really got over you.
