LAST NIGHT WAS A MISTAKE Last night was a mistake. I should not have called you. Again. I should have waited and written a poem, or maybe a book, or maybe just sat and cried like I did afterwards. I should not have called you because it was too late, or maybe too early, and I was too tired to be as inteligent as I was trying to be, and it was a mistake. And if you had been there, like I had wished you were, then I would have woken you up anyways. And I would have kissed you (But I shouldn't have) and told you the truth (Like I shouldn't have) and you would have held me when I sat and cried and told me that everything was ok (like you did) and that it would pass (like you did). And I would still have this sinking feeling that I am still too much of a child to deserve to love you.
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