I know, I know. I’m making myself sick over how many times I’ve written about you and me. I’m throwing our past on the flagpole for all who once knew us to see. Maybe this is karma for all those years you did exactly what I’m now doing.
Being unable to let go is an ugly thing, brutal in its unforgivingness. But how can I say goodbye to something we both promised would eventually rekindle?
When it gets really bad, I reread our lovesick promises. They don’t seem foolish though. Still, they seem so genuine. I think they were, then. Once.
Even when we broke up, there was a heavy bookmark left on our page. We held spots open for one another, when the miles between us wouldn’t so drastic and time would finally be on our side. Time was never really on our side. But we were sure it would be. It had to be.
I dream about you once a week, and it really fucks me up. It doesn’t help that I have freakishly realistic dreams and always remember every detail. The way you smell. The way you look when you see me again after so long. The way we hug and it’s like we’re eighteen all over again.
These dreams of us reuniting were supposed to eventually stop.
That’s what everyone promised. Leaves would change color, and I’d stop wanting to call you when I see someone pushing a dog in a stroller. Trees would turn bare, and I’d stop thinking I see your car on the highway. My denim shirt would fade, the years would carve us apart, and, one day, I wouldn’t even remember your birthday.
Well, Darling? It turns out they all lied. No, you are not the person I run to with every mundane detail anymore. You have not seen me with blonde hair (better off that way, it was a terrible decision). And I never got to congratulate you on getting into grad school. Our lives kept going. The world has kept turning.
But you are still a thumbprint on my heart. Sometimes, I wonder if others can see the indent. Sometimes, I wonder if everyone I’ve kissed after you can still taste us. What a bittersweet sight we were. What a beautiful sight, to have two people love each other so fully, so mutually. It’s never been like that, for me.
Maybe it has been, for you. Maybe you’ve loved someone that purely again. I like to believe you have, that you do. Seems worth it, somehow. If I have to get hit with these nostalgic dreams every week, I’d hope you’re happy.
I’d hope one of us is sleeping through the night.