your heart can break at any age.
If I actually say it. If I actually write it. It means its done. That shouldn’t be such a bad thing, because its done anyway. If I’ve started coming to the conclusion that some things are better left unknown, and unsaid. But they are known, and those words have been said.
So why is part of my heart still fighting for you?
No one asked to end it as it did. I wish I could say it’s a pretty ending but that means lying to myself which goes into saying I’m hurting myself even more.
He says my posted acknowledgment of the people who care about me hurts him. He doesn’t get the fact that even these people know that their efforts will seem insignificant with just his i-love-you.
He says he is tired seeing me heartbroken. He doesn’t know I’m getting tired of it myself. Repeating a routine I wish I shouldn’t have started. I can not even teach myself to be un-broken, to un-love.
He isn’t my first heartbreak. But he is the first relationship I have allowed myself to be lost, to give it all in, to take in as much as I can, give more than I could.
He can be one of the few men who came and went. I watched them go and I moved on. But he’s made sure he is too hard to move away from. I took a few steps away myself but sometimes, I turn my head a little and see him stop and do the same thing as I was. He crosses a few distance and I knew I would always take him back even with the knowledge that it wouldn’t turn out right.
He was the one chance I risked having all my chips down. He was beautiful. He was worth fighting for. Even with myself. And in that battle, I died. This was what he last asked of me. And even to that, I surrendered.
I never asked for it to be over. But then again, I never asked for it to begin. That’s the way it is with life; some of the most beautiful days come completely by chance, but even the most beautiful days have their sunsets.
…i’m drunk. can you come and get me?..
It took several bottles of liquor to give in. To even ask that of him. A few more and it was an absolute surrender. I even surprised myself on how much audacity it took to send that first message, to even admit he still is a much part of me.
And the replies somehow kissed more the sadness that I was already feeling. It was some sort of vindication that urge to drink more than I can handle. A rebellious effort to release him from my thoughts; to at least pretend that I am able to forget him.
Although I anticipated the answers, it didn’t make the pain hurt any less. It’s just sometimes, no matter how often we deny it or how often we accept it, we expect more from others because we’d be willing to do that much for them.
It wasn’t about how I was getting home, it was entirely about who I wanted to take me home. Drunk that I was. Just to see if he cared enough. Because I still cared enough even when others cared enough about me. He was the one that mattered.