What is a year but 365 days of opportunity.
365 moments to love you, to know you, to want you.
What is a year but 365 days of torture.
365 moments to miss you, to hate you, to want you still.
It would’ve been a year at the beginning of November.
I can’t help but remember that.
But what is a year in the grand scheme of our lives?
Sometimes it’s everything.
A Series of Observations 