It was poetically chaotic. It was one sided, it was so unhealthy in every which way shape and form. It was night after night, morning after morning that I would stand out there at that bus stop. Every single day for nine months, waiting at that bus stop. Hoping and wishing that one day it would come. Some days it felt like it was definitely going to come, but most days would end with an unfortunate outcome. That is what it felt like to be crazy about her.
Every road, avenue, street, and highway all lead somewhere. But there wasn’t a road, avenue, street, or highway that lead me back to her. It was thinking about it so much every day, that I began to believe things were ok. That maybe we actually did have a chance, that maybe a picture of her and I together did exist. But how wrong I was. That is what it felt like to be crazy about her.
It was drowning in my sorrows, and getting high off the nostalgia. It was constantly taking trips into the past when things were different. It was passively speeding down the expressway at 80 miles per hour daydreaming about the crevasses in her body that I once knew so well. It was holding onto a blanket so tightly, and feeling like someone was trying to rip it out of my hands. That is what it felt like to be crazy about her.
It was explaining to her friends that my intentions were so pure, that I meant no harm. It was hoping and wishing to share in her laughter, and in her presence. It was crumbling at the thought of her loving someone else. I remembered so well how it felt to be loved by her. I remember the energy, and the affection which to this day still make my heart beat uncontrollably fast. That is what it felt like to be crazy about her.
It was painting the brightest and most colorful paintings to distract me from the blues and greys of her indifference. It was disregarding all the horribles in the world and crying to my own mother because I couldn’t find her. It was the shocking disbelief and tremendous denial that she and I weren’t compatible anymore. That our time had passed, and that I was someone that had to stay in her past. That is what it felt like to be crazy about her.
I endured the chaos, and the one-sidedness. I stood out there at that bus stop waiting for the line that was her. I searched every road, avenue, street, and highway for a way back to her but came up short each time. I learned to swim in my sorrows, and developed a high tolerance to the nostalgia. I stopped talking to your friends, and stopped wishing of being in her presence. I stopped crying, and faced the reality of the situation.
I don’t know if we are done for good. I don’t know if we will ever find a way back. It’s been a while now and much of the momentum has been lost. I want to become better for myself because only then I can be good enough for her. I’ll never forget about the memories you left me with or the imprint you made. She may forget, but I won’t.
I was crazy about her.