Maybe I can write it out. Write enough ficlets, or enough poems, or enough broadway musicals to work you out of my system. Maybe that’s what I need. To just write and write and write and then maybe I’ll get over you. To just let the words flow freely from my fingertips and let you flow with them. Flow right on out. Out of my mind, soul, and heart. Out of my life. But of course I could never really get rid of you. I’d still have to see you almost everyday but atleast the overwhelming feelings would be there. At least the desires wouldn’t fight for control. Maybe if I write enough I can finally let you go. But is there such a thing as writing enough when it comes to you? Can I really ever write about ALL that you do to me? All that you’ve done to me? Maybe. Just maybe.