I know you, you know big words. Imprinted, scattered, the adjective best put to use if, or whenever remnants of you had maybe popped up into my head: melancholy. You taught me how to correctly pronounce it; I remember. You told me I knew big words, like I didn’t know so myself. I wish you’d tell me I held the ability to put them to use, that I was able to create beautiful skirts of feelings that flowed ever so freely, yet in the way they were sketched up to be. You saw me as a person that simply knew of such things but I wanted you to recognize me as one that could sew together an eye-balling, breath-taking, no-way-jose kind of beauty with threads of unspeakable he-said, she-said’s. ”Big words” were of no use if she had her head filled up with these letters and still couldn’t bind them together well enough for someone to pick up and comprehend, because nonetheless, it fell apart over and over again. What pushed my buttons was the fact that you skimmed, saw a girl that knew big words and when I looked at you, there remained a guy that in all actuality knew nothing of me, really; and so in consequence, lavishly together we spent seasons swallowed up in ambiguity. 

We stumbled into fallacy. misconceptions. error. ever so imprudently.

Needless to say, it did not end well.