I Still Miss Her

August 10, 2009

It hurts again.

Every minute I think about you is another minute I spend wishing I didn’t ever think about you again. If I could have known this is how things would turn out, I would have turned and run away all those years ago – just fled the whole damn thing, buried my feelings, never gotten invested. Lets face it – you got in deep – I let you touch my heart and soul, and for a while it was fantastic. The feelings – a drug! – I had to have more – I let you in deeper, gave you a part of me, put part of myself into you, built memories of us, merged parts of you into my life, my brain, my life. There’s songs I still can’t listen to if I don’t want to bury my face and cry, songs I loved to listen to, music that reflected a part of me in it. Those songs are ashes now.

Four times a day the clock mocks me, our childish games – make a wish – I wish I’d never lost touch with you. I wish I’d never pursued you. I wish you were still here. I wish I could kiss you one more time. I wish I’d never met you. So many conflicting desires I might explode, my heart, barely mended, might rip right through the scotch tape and rubber bands and break once more. I wish I could be whole again – happy alone, never missing you again, never thinking of you. Too bad wishes don’t work that way.

Do you still feel for me like you used to? Probably not. You have him, you’ve moved on. It’s just me now. Just me, living in the past – I can’t escape it, can’t move on. I can’t stop dreaming about you, because I’m happy then. I have you there, in the place I always have to leave, to wake up from. It’s pathetic, imperfect, and I know it’s false even while I’m there. Pretending all the while, I see us together, happy again, like we never really were. It’s all I can do – fake a smile, dream a falsehood, make believe I’m well, push on into another day.

I do more things that make me happy now, but that’s because I have to – I was content before just to have you in my life – now I have to push myself further, farther, harder. I have to do things to be happy because I can’t just be happy – can’t even be content. Can’t stand still, or you’ll catch up to me. Must keep moving, keep running. If I let the memories catch up, if I sit in one place too long, you’ll be there again, in my head, in my lungs, in my blood. Will you ever leave me? Can I ever let you go? Or will I just drag it on, cut open my old wounds, bleed – the familiar pains remind me that I still can feel, that I do still have real feelings, the ones I don’t have to turn on so that everyone around me doesn’t feel weird or awkward.

It’s not a game with you, never was. It was life, it was death, it was all I cared about for years. You were my muse, my love, the only person I’ve ever felt strongly connected to. Now you don’t talk to me, don’t return my calls. You’ve made a clean break, moved on, been stronger and smarter and more healthy then I. I just care too much, and can’t get over you. You were my muse. I can’t write poetry any more. No more love poems, no more songs – that part of me is dead and buried, and I can’t even come near it. I still tap into you, into those feelings – how else could I write things like this? Tears stream down my cheeks – I realized today that I lost my last picture of you – the only one I dared save – it was stupid, but made me laugh, and that’s why I kept it – I hoped to one day laugh about all of this. You were happy in it – I hope you’re happy now. I want one of us to be at least. You were happy before me, maybe you’re happy after. Maybe I just made you miserable, made your life worse. All I really know is that you came into my life like a shining light, a star burning in the darkest days, so beautiful and mysterious, and too hot to touch, too dangerous to get close to. I got in too close, caught in your orbit, and now I can’t escape. A moth to flame, I’m stuck circling, never too close, but never far enough away to escape.

Where does that leave me? Here, physically, in this shithole house with the frogs and mosquitos and leaky roof. Here, emotionally, crying softly to myself, biting my lip – fuck, that reminds me of you too – trying to keep quiet and hide my feelings both. Pour them out, I thought, it’ll help. Don’t keep them bottled up or you’ll just explode. It’s not working. It’s not working. I still love you, damn you. You kept a piece of me that I need to be whole, and something tells me I’ll never get it back. I’ll just have to get used to being incomplete. I wish I’d never let myself feel – it made me soft, broke me. I’ll never love anyone like I loved you, and I loved you with all my heart.

I can’t come back until I don’t feel like this any more. The distance is all that keeps me safe, from hurting myself, allows me to stumble on in this pointless, empty existence. I’m afraid of what I’d do if I was near you again. Can’t stand being away, can’t be near without falling apart. Fuck, I’m a mess for you. I wish I’d never felt anything for you – would be either dead or happier right now, and I’d either way I wouldn’t care – I’m so sick of caring, so sick of being unhappy, so sick of being heartsick, of being lonely, of thinking and agonizing over you. I might have left, but I’m the one left behind. Fuck it – I’m going to sleep. There at least, we can be us again. It might be weak, pathetic, and tomorrow I’ll hate myself for it. Sounds like us, alright. How’d I ever get this messed up?


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