You got tired of love letters; they all read the same and you were getting bored.
You got tired of roses; no matter two dozen or four, they all smelled of regret.
You got tired of dinner dates; some fancy restaurant with its long name scrawled out in neon, cursive lettering at its head, that served food that tasted more like it came from the garbage than any kind of kitchen.
You got tired of holding hands; my fingers would sweat like there were no tomorrow and yours would always scream to be let go.
You got tired of conversations at 4 am; I never had anything interesting to say anyways.
You got tired of promises; I guess you never wanted to keep any in the first place.
You got tired of kisses; just because it could burn sixty-eight calories per hour didn’t mean we should’ve locked lips all the time.
You got tired of us, or so you say, but I think you just got tired of me.
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