I Don’t Let Myself Think About You Anymore, But Sometimes I Can’t Help It
I really, really don’t want to say it. But fuck, I miss you today. Sundays were our days. Remember? We’d sleep in. You’d go down on me for a while, then we’d fuck, our bodies falling tired on each other’s, a slow, passionate sex that was different than the night before when we were drunk and horny as all fucking hell. I could hear the traffic from the open window, and the cool rain from a strange October.
You’d kiss my forehead and tuck me back into your bed. I’d sleep for a while longer, while you go out to the couch and smoke, watch something on TV, and text some friends about the games that’ll play later on in the day. Coffee? When you knew I was awake you’d run out and get us some. I’d wait on the couch, all comfortable in your sweatpants and my favorite tee-shirt of yours, and when you’re back you’d sit right up close next to me with your hands on my legs, and together with the rain outside, we’d drink coffee in that faded grey Sunday light, warm and in love, so happy and content.
God, I loved you. You changed everything, you know.
And that’s where we’d stay, all day long, until your friends came over for pizza and beers, sports and music and catching-up conversation, and you and I would sit together, always touching, always sneaking in kisses, always catching flirtatious stares across the room as you poured me more wine, because we were happy and this was our beautiful, simple life.
Until it wasn’t anymore.
Those Sundays are a million years ago now, it seems. I’ve since taught myself to push away that fever of you, to resist your haunting memory, to keep the tears far, far away, and to curse away that aching pain, but it still is never easy. Your love was brilliant and I was addicted to it, but in order to live and to breath and to stay sane, I had to bury it all. I wasn’t well. I couldn’t exist without you. I had no choice but to commit to never thinking about you ever again—about us ever again. But sometimes I can’t help it, and the pulse of you awakens in me—you with that deep blue stare, and that all-consuming, hands everywhere embrace. And in letting you in again, even just that little, little bit, every day feels like Sunday—when I am yours and you are mine and together we are everything.
God, I miss you.
Remember how late on that Sunday we’d fuck again under the covers, and then once more right after that, because we just had to have each other? Remember? We’d listen to the rain and the traffic, to a song you’d play low, and we’d fall asleep together feeling so blissfully happy, because you were mine and I was yours and Sundays were so ours—the Sundays when it was never in a million years possible that this could ever end.
I try so hard not to think about it. But sometimes I just can’t help it. Somehow you always find a way in.
(Deep breath. Shake it off. Deal with it. Repeat.) 
