It Doesn't Matter.

It doesn't matter.
He doesn't matter.
Nothing matters, because to him,
It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter
That when I hear his name, my gut still aches.
It doesn't matter
that the girl he is with I wish was really me.
It doesn't matter
that I know these feelings might actually be fake.
It doesn't matter
that I'm obsessed with an idea and not what I really see.
It doesn't matter
that every time I get close to uncaring, the picture of us

(the one where we're content just staring at each other, or maybe the one where you're crying because you fell in love with me on accident)

is back in my head.
It doesn't matter
that he's different, that I'm different. That we'd be different.
Maybe better, probably worse.
It doesn't matter
that I will never be able to find out.
It doesn't matter
that I'm counting down the days till the anniversary of our split.
Because maybe (hopefully, probably not) on that day, I'll snap out of this caring.
It doesn't matter
that we agreed we hoped we'd find our way back to each other.
It doesn't matter.
But for some stupid reason.

It fucking does.