Most Of The Time I Don’t Think Of You

Most of the time I don’t think of you. Sometimes, when I’m alone and I stare out a window and try to imagine what my life will be like in the future I wonder what it could have been like if you had fallen for me the way I fell for you. And it’s not a feeling of agony to imagine the stylish apartment all set up in vintage designer furniture with big abstract illustrations framed in heavy wooden moldings and the long walks by the river while we discuss our favorite piece of literature. Its rather the feeling of a blank space that may or may not remain forever in me.

The void where your heart should be, much like the spaces between my fingers that held yours so perfectly. And even if I will never know what color our curtains would have been, I am just sometimes thinking of you. I think of the times we laughed until we cried, and the times I did not want to do anything but look at you and let you amaze me with all that you were, all that you are and all that you might be some day.

And right then, I failed to realize how much more I felt for you, how much closer I wanted to hold you and how much longer I wanted to look at you and how much more I adored you. And every time I wanted to breathe all I could smell was you. And I loved that smell.

Most of the time I don’t think of you. And it’s a good kind of ‘not thinking of you’. You broke my heart, indeed you did. But I did not break yours. And that did not fail to happen because you were clearly in a superior position in our relationship; it was rather because I never truly had your heart. I did not have it, I did not hold it in my hands as you held mine and you never called my presence home as I called yours mine.

Most of the time I don’t think of you. I wonder if you will ever find that one person that you will give your all to, unconditionally and with all that you are, every fear, every secret, every wish, every vision and every hope. And I pray that you will. Because you, more than anyone, deserve to feel loved with every single thing about you, every thought and action and word and fantasy that defines you. And all I have wanted for so long was to be exactly that person. To make you feel loved like you have never been loved before, to feel accepted and understood. To make you feel home.

Most of the time I don’t think of you. But when I do, my feelings shift from feeling bad for myself to some kind of justification and declaration that I am better of without you. And I know it’s a lie. It’s a lie because our personalities are almost as if they’re made for one another. But the thing that hindered us from realizing how beautifully perfect our souls should have been connected was your fear to let go and to fall; to fall hard because you have never been caught before.

You have fallen and someone didn’t catch you. I would have. I would have caught every piece of you, I would have tried to put back together all the tiny pieces you have burst into the last time you allowed yourself to feel something real. And in the end, its true: I am better of without you, because you did not give me your all. You never planned to do. And you probably never will.

Most of the time I don’t think of you. You are never my muse and never my inspiration to be a better person, you lifted me up only in a way I lift myself up; you cheered me up only in a way that I pushed you to. I looked for all the good things in you behind the hard brick wall of false promises and dreams burned to ashes that you hold to protect yourself from heartache. And I found them; I found all these kind words that I desperately looked to hear, I found all the sweet gestures in you when I looked for them.


Most of the time I don’t think of you. Your face sometimes pops up when someone makes a reference you would get or I pass by the liquor store that you share names with. I never see you in whole. I don’t distinctly remember the form of your chin or how many birthmarks you have on your forearm. Little pieces of memories let me remember the good moments we shared. But you never appear in whole. It is all only a picture of outlines of dark brown eyes and well cut short hair framing your face. But its never you in whole. And the reason for that is as simple as it is depressing: I never had you in whole.

I wasn’t your home, I didn’t have your heart. And even though I wished for you to be the one to meet me at the end of the aisle, and even though the feeling of unfulfilled desires that consumed me every time I was alone after spending time with you – desires to know you, feel you, hear you, know you, love you and just know you – I am convinced that the time will come when the reflection of your smile vanishes along with the memories of arm around me or your lips on mine. 
But most of the time I don’t think of you.