It’s been months since you’ve spoken to each other, even longer since you’ve seen each other. So long in fact, you can’t seem to recall the last words he said to you, and vice versa. His face, which you swore you memorized down to the last freckle, now blurs with uncertainty in your memory. Those three little words he’d whisper in your ear before falling asleep are but a distant daydream. Sometimes it feels as though you are drifting between consciousness; so deep in the beautiful lie you could swear it’s his fingers tracing the outline of your back, yet the harsh truth of reality is always there. The reality that he isn’t.
You don’t still love him, but you still care. You wonder sometimes if he ever wonders about you. And you hate the silence but you swear you won’t be the first to speak. Part of you wishes he would. That part, which varies in intensity day to day, aches to touch him. To be wrapped up in his arms which was once your comfort zone. Just once, you try to convince yourself. Just one more time for old time’s sake.
And the other part of you, which screams and claws at you from the inside, knows what the two of you had wasn’t meant to last. The decay of broken promises; of insignificant arguments and bitter disappointments, lingered in the air with a tension that cut you deeper than the broken pieces he left scattered on the floor.
What was left was so messy and dysfunctional, you question why you’re dying to feel it again. And you almost wish he’d come back on a white horse and whisk you away. Or stand outside your window holding a boom box over his head. But as you glance outside your third story apartment, the sun shines light on the fact that not even he would make you happy. You may miss the feeling he gave you, but you don’t miss him. And just knowing that allows you to sleep a little better at night.