Jesus I miss you. It comes and goes. Most days I can hold the sadness in the palm of my hand, look at it, see it for what it is, and let it flutter off into whatever place it goes to rest. Most days I think I'm getting better. The pain is less, but the emptiness hasn't faded a bit. I walk around every day with a hole in the shape of you. I can feel the longing blowing through the you-shaped empty space inside me, and it reminds me of what I've given up. But most days I stop there, and move on.
Some days, it's worse. When I'm drinking, when I get the old urge to be something else, to turn the world on its head and live wild, to squelch caution and pull the beating heart of the earth close to my naked skin and feel it quiver... that's when I sink under the dark water that's the memory of you. I feel your eyes on mine. Fuck, I long for anything, everything. I wish I could talk to you. Or sit next to you in a field of grass and clouds, not talking at all.
I've thought a thousand times of reaching out for you, and a thousand times I've decided that it would be only selfish, only destructive. Am I wrong?
I still love you.
