This Is What A Good Night Text Really Means
Romance

When You Text Me

It happened. I have waited, begged, and prayed from my atheistic heart that the day would come I would finally be able to not respond to you. You are, and always have been, the living existence of my deepest addiction. I saw your text, signature emoji that otherwise is a trigger, sends a rush of endorphins to every far-reaching existence of my mind and body. You texted me, and for anyone that has even the smallest amount of self-worth, or has been blessed with ever mutual feelings, or is the (lucky) one to always initiate the breakups-they would never understand this feeling. Not even that I want to talk to you every day, but you wanting to talk to me stands like Christ the Redeemer of validation I purely happened to cross your mind. The least number of milliseconds you thought of me, reached for your phone, drafted a text, hit send. Supplementary to my high, your reference of things we whispered so late at night in places even the moon cannot touch my skin. It’s pathetic really, your hold on me.

Ignore. Respond. Ignore. Respond. Ignore. Respond.

Remember that night- there are so many. Flashes of running down the stairs in my tank top, more transparent than my eyes into my heart and soul when they meet yours. You shelter me in your arm, our bodies warmth radiating against the star lit sky. Deep breath, inhale. Smoke on our skin, the rest of the world asleep while our bodies collide. You are inside me, all of me. Then, now, forever.

You know all of this. Playing me must be your most favorite game.

I was doing so well, every memory littered with you tucked dangerously inside some part of my conscious I don’t even want to begin to find. But you’re back- I can’t concentrate. My focus always drifts back to the nights when your hands explored every part of me. I feel your dirty blond curls brush along my collar bone, your kisses trailing, your fingers dancing, your voice whispering. I sit in my office chair and disappear to when your body morphed with mine, dripping for your love.

I go down this path in slow meandering kisses you left down on me, I am a slave to obsession and it’s always been you. I have wished it someday wouldn’t, or that I could accept what this is, or that I would love myself more than I ever loved you.

The trees outside blow, a constant dance of how you ignite me. Clouds cover and bring rain, wetting the sheets we once entangled ourselves between. Last night leaves me foggy this morning, all just a show to distract myself from wanting you, craving you-never satisfied because I want what doesn’t exist.

My to-do list is getting longer and longer.

I can’t help myself, the memories of you so vivid, you brought me to life that first night. But I am not the naïve girl I once was, and you are no longer the apple of my temptation. Flip the tables, you don’t get to have a hold of me. I am merely a slave to my memory. Your same games, it is clear you have not grown. I do not want you- the man on the other end of the phone, drafting that text- it is you who is pathetic.

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outward-facing private life with (un)healthy coping mechanisms Follow Sydney on Instagram or read more articles from Sydney on Thought Catalog.