why

it's different.  i can't text you whenever i want to, i can't ask you how you're feeling, i can't tell you what i'm going through. i can't curl up next to you in my bed and cry on your shoulder, i can't hear you whispering it's okay while you stroke my hair.
i can't stroke your hair at your locker, i can't run to you and tell you my latest math grade, i can't call you "honey" in a text or tell you i still love you or kiss your pain away.
i can't ask you to come to a lacrosse game, i can't text you out of the blue, i can't know what you're feeling and thinking.
i can't know if we're going to get back together, and that's all i really want to know; that you still love me and are missing these things, too. 
i can't ask you the best path for me to take without showing you every ounce of how i'm feeling, every speck of what's breaking my heart, every single corner of the hurt that consumes me.

it's so different, yet i still want it.  i know what we had, and i know i'll never give up on it, not for a million years, not if it kills me a hundred thousand times.  i don't know if that makes me noble or foolish.

 probably a mixture of the two.