To Love Is To Miss

To Love Is To Miss
God & Man

Whispered in my ear were the words, Je tโ€™aime, oh je tโ€™aime de tout mon coeur.

I really donโ€™t understand this; what does it mean to love with all oneโ€™s heart? Does it mean to love in your hands? Does it mean to love in your words? In your looks? In your mass? Je tโ€™aime. Je tโ€™aime. A dizzying string of je tโ€™aimes.

I only smiled at him on the metro earlier today because I was melancholy, yet now there is a collarbone on my lips and smeared scarlet lipstick on them. And while Iโ€™m closing my eyes and whispering meaningless words, I am thinking about how to me this stranger is exactly what I never want to be to anyone else: a hollow body. A sad, sad shell of a human that takes up space when needed. And I am thinking that if I were asked what it is to love, Iโ€™d answer that to love is to miss.

Every night in bed, I tell myself one hundred times that I am just a body, just a body, just atoms and cells and veins and a heart. Just a body. But I am always crying by 27 because everything I tell myself is really just a lot of bullshit. I am not just a body. I am feelings and heartaches and tears.

And here I am, hurting and being hurt, listening to gasps that are not mine, busy being lost in sweet memories of lavender fields I have not been to and skinny girls I am not, and praying to God, โ€œGod, are you there? I donโ€™t want to be in love anymoreโ€.

And I knew it since I first exhaled a disappointed โ€œfuckโ€ at the age of 11 and I know it now: I am reaching for something that is not. Reaching, reaching, always reaching for things far too impossible. TC mark

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