It’s not supposed to make sense. That’s what someone once said about love. You shrugged your shoulders and gave a smile. Who knows, right? No one knows. Until they know.

You fall asleep clutching your pillow. Partly because you wish it was him. Also because you can’t sleep without squishing something. Your fingers keep reaching to no avail. He hurt you. You try to remind yourself of this.

He hurt me.

But still, there’s a sharp ache somewhere inside your chest. It keeps you up at night. It robs you of breath. It’s constant and you try to explain it, but things don’t make sense.

Remember? This isn’t supposed to make sense.

There’s a song or a movie or a smell and you’re instantly transported back to a time when he wrapped his arms around you. It was easy. It was gentle and comforting, you looked at him as the center of your entire world. Maybe that was a mistake.

You hate his hands now. You miss his hands now. You hate how much you miss his hands and how your body still begs for them at night. But he’s far away. He’s with someone new, a replacement.

You curse his name. You spit on his memory. Everything that once was sacred feels like a cosmic joke. You were betrayed and used; was this all for his amusement?

How do you still miss what hurt you the most?

Your masochistic heart. A ghost tangled up in your bedsheets.

Logically, you know to let him go. You know wanting someone who caused so much pain isn’t rational.

But love doesn’t make sense. And neither does missing him.