I guess I’m writing because I bought this notebook weeks ago and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. I guess I’m writing because the room is just light enough to see the words. It’s the color between daytime and twilight where I can’t see the tip of my pencil, so the words just seem to appear. I guess I’m writing because today I feel empty, I guess it’s because I feel a jolt of sadness, and an overwhelming numbness. I guess it’s because I’ve been sick all day, and I can’t decipher between a sore throat and words clawing up my windpipe. I guess I’m writing because I miss her so fucking much. I miss her. And not the way you miss baby teeth or second cousins, the way they come and go and you barely realize they existed at all. I miss her the way you miss breathing after 57 seconds beneath water. I miss her. And sometimes I feel like I don’t have a right to. But more than the emptiness I am left with the question ‘does she miss me too?’ And that’s why I’m writing, because I’ve spent the majority of the day trapped beneath the weight of wondering and the emptiness refuses to subside. I just want to know I’m not alone in this. I want to know that I’m on her mind as much as she’s on mine. Because god knows I spend more time thinking about her than I do moving, and I can never keep still. Touching her feels like gravity. Like falling but being completely controlled, like orbiting around the center of everything I have ever wanted. I feel like I’m coughing up everything I want to say. I am laying by her sweatshirt and it still smells like her. I can almost feel her heartbeat when I hold it, like she’s almost close enough to touch. Almost. I keep replaying the night I recited her poetry. I can remember my hands shaking, because I don’t think I had ever touched something as beautiful as her skin. I keep trying to remember everything, but the more I try the more it slips away. I miss her laugh. And the way she hates to be tickled. I miss the way she wakes up. The way she let me watch her sleep. I know I over-analyze everything, but I swear to god I stop thinking entirely when I catch her so blissfully unaware. I lose track of everything and find myself completely in rhythm with her breathing. I don’t know why I’m falling so hard for her. And it terrifies me. In every relationship I’ve followed the philosophy that the one who cares less carries the power. I have always cared less. I have always left my heart in a cage because the world is more horrifying than captivity will ever be. I am not good with vulnerability. And I’m scared because I broke my rule. I care. I fucking care about her. And I miss her. But missing her is far better than not having her at all, even though some days it feels the same. I’m not in love with her but I swear I could be one day. This is my first honest poem. The kind that swear ripped it’s way from my chest. I told her I was afraid she was going to break my heart. It’s true. I’m petrified. But I give her full permission. She can shatter it, if only I get to love her first.
An excerpt from my journal three days before the break up. (via fagwit
I am crying.
This should be in a book.