It was a different kind of heartbreak. Not like losing a boyfriend; it still lingers deep inside me. It doesn’t fade.
Some days my desire to be a writer is both a blessing and a curse. I seek the often unattainable.
I thought, ‘I love you’ would save me somehow. Instead I find myself tongue-tied whenever I look into your eyes and feel the words, desperate to escape my lips, but for whatever reason, they can’t.
I’ve been choosing you ever since the day we met, too stubborn and reckless to give up on something that me feel so alive.
I can’t stop picturing you with her; the way you used to kiss and how you’d hold her close to your body and inhale her scent.
This place, where we laughed like school children, kissed like it was both the first time and the last time, and never ran out of things to say, was everything. Is everything, still.
I often think my ability to romanticize everything is a curse. You could break my heart into a million pieces and yet I’d still find a way to make you beautiful.
I remember you told me we’d meet up some day in a coffee shop somewhere and we’d talk about the years that stretched between us and we’d find happiness for each other. Maybe we’d start again, fold ourselves into each other’s bodies in a way only we could.
I spent that year fighting with myself because I knew I’d never find another you. I knew I’d only find pieces of you in those that came after. Of course those pieces would never be as special or as raw as they are in you. Just copies, slightly fragmented, nowhere near perfect.
I try so hard every day to not be insane. I try to push my “crazy girl brain” into the darkness of my mind and be rational but it’s hard, and it’s even harder when I know what you’re capable of. Sometimes I just wish I could switch it off.