If you’ve ever loved me, I would like to say thanks. Thank you for loving me. It takes a lot for someone to truly love another person these days and I’m happy you decided that I was worth loving. I mean, I know I’m 100% lovable — I don’t have debilitating low self-esteem or anything — but sometimes loving yourself isn’t enough to get others to love you. In my mind, I know I’m great, I like what I see, but my heart occasionally likes to tell a different story. People like to tell a different story.
I would like you to know that your love wasn’t lost on me. I took every bit of affection you gave me and conserved it so I could have something to carry me through the periods of lovelessness. I needed your love by my side at all times so I would never forget. Because once you forget what it feels like to be loved, you risk never getting it back.
I’m sitting here, closing my eyes, and trying to remember what it felt like to be loved by all of you. I’m trying to remember all of the times I’ve been held and kissed and spooned in bed as the sun came up. I live off of these memories. It’s pathetic, I know, but sometimes they’re all that I have.
You see, growing up I wasn’t certain if I would ever be loved by someone. And I don’t mean that to say, “OMG, I’m so hideous and a terrible person!” No, I never really felt that way. I just wasn’t sure if anyone would ever see me for what I was. You know what I mean? I didn’t know if anyone would take the time and effort to truly see me. So when people proved me wrong and started to love me, I was overwhelmed with emotion. It meant that people were seeing all of me and still thinking, “Yup, I’ll love it.”
I’m not going to forget you ever. Please know that. You might forget me but I’ll still remember everything. I’m just wired that way. Of course, a part of me is embarrassed to be the one who never forgets. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only boy who holds on to every insignificant detail but at the end of the day, I don’t know how else to be. If I could turn it all off, if I could let all of my lovers die, perhaps I would. But that’s not my story. That’s not who I am.
When I love someone else, someone new, I will see parts of everyone in him. All of my old lovers will come together like artifacts in a museum and rest on top of my new love. You go everywhere with me, don’t you understand? If I gave you a piece of my heart once, you have permission to hold on to it forever.