"See, I would give up every single thing I have to hear her say my name, to smell her skin, to hear her laugh, to have her tell me she is proud of me, hell I would give up everything just to have an argument with her. I have no idea how I am going to get through the rest of my life without her, and every day there is a struggle and there is also an opportunity. I believe we selfishly want to be with someone and so badly want to be able to physically reach out and touch them, but in all reality, I know I am closest to her than anyone can be. I am her DNA, she flows through my blood and every molecule of my being, and on top of this phenomenal understanding, her energy guides and moves me in ways I cannot even describe through any drawings or words. I am reminded daily through songs, people, strangers, scents, the sky, places, spaces, dreams, that she, without a sliver of a doubt, is here. Her energy is so powerful that I can’t go a day without reflecting on my own energy, continuously striving to be better than I was the day before."
When someone leaves you, apart from missing them, apart from the fact that the whole little world you’ve created together collapses, and that everything you see or do reminds you of them, the worst is the thought that they tried you out and, in the end, the whole sum of parts adds up to you got stamped REJECT by the one you love. How can you not be left with the personal confidence of a passed over British Rail sandwich?
You fit everything I wanted: the eyes, the height, the voice, the family. Everything was unconditionally perfect and it drove me crazy. All the pieces were there but nothing matched up. You even screwed up in ways that were beautiful. I am supposed to cherish you—love you—be grateful for having you. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want anything to do with your chocolate eyes or powder skin. It was a realization that broke me apart every time I tried to deny this absence of passion. I couldn’t force this deficient desire to suddenly spark out of the uncomfortable air that lied between us. You and I just didn’t work.
And if you do, will you tell me about it? Because if you really love me, in a love-you-on-rainy-Tuesday, love-you-when-you’re-being-impossible, love-you-more-because-of-everything-we’ve-been-through kind of way, I need to know.
PS: Written words help me understand. (But, if you love me, you know that. Because that’s the kind of thing you know about someone you love.)