Sometimes I think I see him -- in a crowd, walking along the street, in a car on some random bit of road. It's never really him. Still, in that brief instant of imagined recognition, I want to abandon my securities and fly to him. I want to take a running leap and give him a huge hug, and tell him... what?
It drives me insane. I find myself looking for him. I mean really searching, as if I expect him to show up at any moment and sit down to lunch, or ask me how he's supposed to know which tomato is just ripe enough. And it hurts. It hurts because he's not really gone. We live in the same area, and we probably go to some of the same places. It would be easier if he were dead. I could mourn, and grieve, and visit his grave instead of wondering what he's doing right now and if he's happy. Wondering if he's forgotten me.
The stupid thing is, it was always me pushing him away. I lied, and I broke his heart too many times to count. And always he came back to me. I guess it was love. Near the end, I was trying so hard to pull myself together to make things right with him. I left him when he said he stayed because he was too afraid of change. I guess it was only fair that I should have my heart broken as well.
I hope he remembers the good things. I hope he remembers the tickle-wars, and the quiet phone calls before bed. I want him to remember the park in spring, when we would take turns in the grass and giving each other massages. Or sitting in the shade and watching other people's kids. I know I do. I remember making love -- we almost never had sex, it was always making love -- in the middle of the night, or suprising him at the door on his lunch break. I remember walking together, and how it was always a stroll even when it was just from the car to a building. I remember all the joy and happiness that we had and I hope that he remembers, too. I hope he never settles for anything less than that. I hope that the next person he finds who enjoys thunderstorms as much as he does is better at loving him than I was.
I still look for him. I think I'm really looking for that feeling. I'm looking for the energy and the being alive and the.... Lightening.
It drives me insane. I find myself looking for him. I mean really searching, as if I expect him to show up at any moment and sit down to lunch, or ask me how he's supposed to know which tomato is just ripe enough. And it hurts. It hurts because he's not really gone. We live in the same area, and we probably go to some of the same places. It would be easier if he were dead. I could mourn, and grieve, and visit his grave instead of wondering what he's doing right now and if he's happy. Wondering if he's forgotten me.
The stupid thing is, it was always me pushing him away. I lied, and I broke his heart too many times to count. And always he came back to me. I guess it was love. Near the end, I was trying so hard to pull myself together to make things right with him. I left him when he said he stayed because he was too afraid of change. I guess it was only fair that I should have my heart broken as well.
I hope he remembers the good things. I hope he remembers the tickle-wars, and the quiet phone calls before bed. I want him to remember the park in spring, when we would take turns in the grass and giving each other massages. Or sitting in the shade and watching other people's kids. I know I do. I remember making love -- we almost never had sex, it was always making love -- in the middle of the night, or suprising him at the door on his lunch break. I remember walking together, and how it was always a stroll even when it was just from the car to a building. I remember all the joy and happiness that we had and I hope that he remembers, too. I hope he never settles for anything less than that. I hope that the next person he finds who enjoys thunderstorms as much as he does is better at loving him than I was.
I still look for him. I think I'm really looking for that feeling. I'm looking for the energy and the being alive and the.... Lightening.
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