Triggered past

If you don’t take me back I’ll come to your house with a gun, I will most probably not use it. I’ll probably put it on the floor and beg for you –

This right here is one of the things I’ve written for you, back when I vowed not to break your trust and back when we both saw eye to eye until the wind blew in your eyes. Not rocking this chair in remorse but contemplating on the rocky valley we had to walk through; at the end of the tunnel was supposed to be a bit more light but unfortunately the light gave you sight to my wrongs. The countless times I brought pity instead of getting you a flower bouquet, the countless times I called to apologise instead of writing you a poem and the countless times you told you weren’t keeping count but was secretly counting my wrongs.

How could I repugnance bumping into you when you were my reflection? If I ever do, blame the coffee.