It's Okay

Many tell me this is wrong. 

They laugh and joke over what has been said and over what I thought. 

I guess I could’ve trained my thoughts so I could see him as a friend and not like I was enjoying his company more than that.  That I could’ve seen the touch as platonic and ignore the fact it sent electricity flying through my skin. I could’ve smiled and waved, being polite and not like I was hoping he’d smile back and it’d be more than it was and not as empty as I needed it to be. 

As empty as the truth was when I’d come to realize that he wasn’t meant for me. 

And that’s okay. 

Really. 

Someone else should witness the smile and feel warm and safe when it’s directed to them. Someone else should live and breathe off the electricity of his touch. The smell of him being someone’s drug. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay. 

So why does it hurt more than it should?

It wasn’t even that long. 

It didn’t leave a scar. It wouldn’t stain. 

I would still be here the next day and witness what I think I destroyed because it wasn’t right for me. 

And it’s okay. 

It’s okay

It’s okay

It’s okay

It’s okay

It wasn’t meant for me.

But it is someone else’s. 

It’s perfectly fine. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay

It’s okay.