Maybe This Will Be The Last Time I Write About You

It’s been 62 days since I last loved you.

That’s terrifying. Exhilarating, but terrifying. Pieces of me have been washed away, and pieces of me have been found, but I am me. All 18 years-worth of regeneration of cells, I am still me.

I’ve read post after post about how it takes 7 years for every cell in our body to be replaced. How time is the only measurement of getting over someone. How time really is the only cure to a broken heart. Especially when the person you used to love is so tainted. By a memory, a place, a someone.

I used to be that person.

When you left, you left scars on top of scars to the point where I truly believed that my heart is nothing but a giant ball of scar tissue, pumping oxygen into failing lungs and a broken soul.

I’ve yet to uncover when I stopped believing such bullshit.

It’s strange writing about you now. I don’t feel as if I just inhaled pool water every time I think of your name. That’s quite an accomplishment, even if I still choke a little on the chlorine from time to time.

I hope you are happy with her. I really do. She has the tamed, silky long hair that I tried so hard to force but never could. She has your mother’s eyes. All kind and twinkly and nice.

I have my mother’s eyes. All fierce and a little sadness.

I do wonder if you think about me sometimes though. In the most innocent ways possible, like when you pass by that quaint little shop by Queen St. If you think about how you once held my bruised hands and listened to my silent giggles.

We never really fit together in that way. Always off by a little.

I wonder if you would’ve fallen for me like how you’ve fallen for her if we just stayed friends.

We lied to everyone didn’t we? We were never friends. Soulmates maybe, but never friends.

Because friends don’t speak like lovers, friends don’t get tangled up in each others arms, friends don’t accidentally touch fingers and never let go.

We were never friends. Lovers maybe, but never friends.

So I hope you hold on to this letter, like what you promised me. All stubborn but with a hint of gentle. Like you were scared the promise would break if you scream it too loudly.

Maybe this really is the last time I’ll write about you.