I Miss You, And I’m Tired Of Pretending Like I Don’t

It’s been a while since we talked. I know we ended things abruptly, both of us caught mid-sentence, unable to piece together that last thought, that last word, that would somehow make it easier — rather, digestible — to realize that everything we had built was about to come crashing down.

But nothing about saying goodbye to you was easy. And nothing about saying goodbye to you made sense.

Do you remember how many times we practiced saying goodbye to each other? The writing was always on the wall. You saw it before I did, but I suppose I do shoulder the blame for turning you away from every flashing sign that predicted how we were going to end. We. Calling us that feels alien now. Like a taboo word I shouldn’t be uttering. It’s almost offensive, given how you and I could never have found our way to each other in that capacity.

We just weren’t meant to be. I suppose you can only ignore the writing for so long before the message scribbles itself on every surface that surrounds, rendering you incapable of avoiding the inevitable.

Even then, after all this time, I can’t help but think about you.

I miss the way you challenged me and gave me enough space to be someone who could challenge you. I miss the way you talked about work, for it was what you were the most passionate about, but I also miss the way you would set it aside for me as we spent hours talking about anything and everything while the sun faded away into the glorious night sky and the stars came out to watch us watch them.

I miss the way I connected with you. I could talk to you about things I still fear to state out loud alone, and I loved watching you open up bit by bit over the years, like a book that contained the utmost detail — each chapter was as riveting a read as the last.

I miss the way you’d hold me. It was always uncertain at first, like we were crossing a boundary we knew we shouldn’t, for on the other side there lay expectations that would lead to pain.

However, once my head was on your chest and your head rested atop mine, everything made sense. It felt right, as if that’s how we were supposed to remain for all our lives — frozen in that instant, with the cologne on your neck becoming a fragrance I ached to call home.

I miss the way I would, at one point in time, say your name over and over, to myself and to you, because your name was my serenity. Now it feels like I’ve lost the right, as if, somehow, I would taint its very meaning if I uttered it.

I could sit here and list everything I remember and ache to relive, but the truth is that I miss the entirety of your being. Every bit of you — the excellent, the awful, and everything else in between.

I have loved and been loved, but I have, perhaps, only ever been in love with you. Unconditionally. Irrevocably. With every fibre of my being and every inch of this here heart that yearns to beat once more to the syllables of your name.

Even then, knowing this now, I know it’s too late. Or, perhaps, the concept of time never applied to us to begin with.

We don’t belong together, despite the fact that I want you more than I want, at times, to breathe. We don’t make sense, even though all you remind me of is a safe haven that I long to return to. We’re just not meant to be, and my yearning, aching, unconditional love can’t change that.

If you are the sky — endless, limitless and magnificent — I am the sea — a deep, dark void — and though it may seem like we’re forever meant to work in unison, the fact is that we run parallel and never meet.

The horizon, for us, is perceived space, a Utopia created by my desire for us to belong, but, alas, it is nothing more than a cunningly beautiful illusion.

It’s been a while since we talked. And I understand how we’re both to blame. There are oceans of conversations within me that I wish to have with you. There are unsent letters, unsaid words, and unheard declarations that I want you to know of.

However, like the sea, I must carry on parallel to your path, observing you from a distance, knowing that you’re soaring, as you always have. Perhaps you’ll find a windy companion, and those gusts will offer all that my tides never could. Perhaps you’ll move on. Perhaps so should I.

But, for now, I will keep my eyes peeled at the horizon, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of our union, despite knowing it’s a trick, only to fool this lovesick heart to carry on, one day at a time.