the ache for getting you back still lives. i mourn each day. i cry each day. even if i’m not supposed to at this point in time. you have left a remarkable emptiness in my heart and i don’t know how i am going to fill it up with the life i once had.
i now know that you were the life i was looking forward to. yet i still managed to turn my back on. i need you now. badly. i want what happiness feels like with even the mere sight of you.
and i still hold on to memories that will never happen.
I hate everything we used to have. I hate being comfortable and settled with the pretending-not-to-be-jealous-see-who-gives-in-first tug-of-war. I hate recalling memories that manages to hurt more when I take them out of the box. I smile then I wince. How funny that they can trigger two emotions at the same time. They’re there. And I don’t have much use trying to deny otherwise. I hate the girls you once liked. I hate the women you once loved. I hate most the woman you now love. I hate every other girl you find pretty. I hate girls. I now hate boys. I loved you. Only you. And every other man that comes along is measured up by how much I have loved you. It scares me how much I have built a wall disallowing every other man to have as much as you had. Maybe I am longing for what once was. Or maybe I still love you. I hate you.
…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.
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, how can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
– Ellen Bass, The Human Line
We spent the night wishing on stars and throwing pebbles into the water. It felt as though we were dancing within a sea of little bright lights and ecstasy. It was beautiful and the tide was warm on our feet. Gin (or was it beer?) helped paint laughter onto a canvas of blue and our movements had never been so fluid. We didn’t care what we looked like, though we surely looked like drunken fools. All that mattered were the tiny fragments of time that we grabbed from the air as they passed over our heads. All that mattered were the stars in our eyes.
He could make me do anything sometimes, just by looking at me in a certain way. Pretty much the way he was looking at me then.
I miss counting shooting stars with you.
Flashback. That snippet of the past you thought you have forgotten. Yet surprisingly you remember. The small details. Those you thought which seemed so insignificant make you smile. For a little while. It fills up. Warmly. Lovingly. Distinctly. So vividly.
I smile while collecting those morsels of memories. Genuinely, sincerely. And I miss that warmth, that heartwarming feeling. And it makes me forget. Even for just a little while. Being melancholic. Being mournful. It makes me not remember. And its welcoming.
We are each other’s own anthology. In retrospect. In spite of the tragic ending, that un-fairytale happy ending. You live. I live. We will. And I accede to it. We happened because we are one of the many life lessons we need to learn. To help us acknowledge our strength. To help us gain wisdom. The right of passage, some may say. Even if it is a reluctant agreement.
Endings may sound so tragic. But they are reality. It’s inescapable. Nevertheless, insightful. Reminding you of who you are. Teaching you to want what you need. To want yourself despite of…