Missing you is a thing I have gotten used to. It’s a thing I’ve been forced to get used to. It’s a shame because it’s so easy to forget the people in your life who you knew never cared about you. But to forget those who used to love you? No. You can’t forget that.
I don’t love you anymore.
At least, not in the way I used to. It used to be a 24/7, “till death do us part”, “you are going to have my kids” type of love. Now it’s a “sometimes I smell you in the air”, and “sometimes I miss the way you held me” type of love. It’s not filled with substance. Now, it’s just filled with silence, with old Facebook pictures and a “hey, how are you?” every few months.
Isn’t it mind boggling to think that a few years ago you shared every single thought that popped in your head to someone that is now frankly, a stranger? How does that happen? At what day did it all change?
Was it in the morning when you saw the sun and knew that I wasn’t yours anymore? Was it in the evening when you saw the moon and thought it was more beautiful than me? I guess I’ll never know.
I don’t have false hope about us anymore. I know it’s over. It’s done with. It is just footprints on the dirt that has been covered up by the seasons many rain falls. And guess what? Knowing that doesn’t make me bitter anymore. It makes me happy that at least once I got to experience something worthwhile. It makes me happy that my heart knows how to love.
But I can’t forget you. Not now and not ever. I think a part of you is stapled onto my heart forever. Or maybe you’re painted on it. Permanent brush strokes that make me happy and sad at the same time. It’s weird how time can get you accustomed to missing someone. It’s almost like I’m content with it. Because I know I’m surviving and that my heart is still beating even with the paint brushed on it. And that’s all that matters.
I am reminded of you only some days now as opposed to every second of every minute. It’s kind of nice.
I see a kid with lanky legs and I smile because I see him in you.
I see a couple kissing on the street and I laugh because I see us in them. It’s haunting. But, maybe it’s a nice ghost instead of a scary one.
I guess this is called acceptance. I am finally accepting all of it. I’m accepting that I will never forget you. And that trying to forget you would just rub salt on my wound. I’ll always share a crack of my heart with you. And I think that crack is painted “Red” because it’s the album we listened to all the time together.