Mindless Circus

and somehow you're still the first person I speak to.

Not out loud.

In my head.

In every moment that matters.

In every joke I almost send.

In every song that finds a part of me I didn't know was still bleeding.

You're still there.

And that's the part I'm embarrassed to admit.

Not because I love you.

I've never been ashamed of that.

I'm embarrassed by how much of me is still yours.

How every day feels like an exercise in restraint.

How many times I stop myself from reaching out.

How many messages get written and deleted.

How many times something beautiful happens and my first thought is still,

*"I can't wait to tell you."*

Before I remember.

I don't get to tell you anymore.

And God...

I miss that.

I miss having someone who made me want to share the world.

Because that's what you did.

You made ordinary things feel worth talking about.

You made random Wednesdays feel important.

You made me excited to exist inside my own life because I couldn't wait to tell you about it.

And I know how pathetic that sounds.

I know.

Trust me, I know.

But if this is the last thing you ever hear from me, then let me at least be honest.

I've tried to move on.

I've tried to be logical.

I've tried to tell myself that two months shouldn't have this kind of hold over me.

I've tried to convince myself that if I just waited long enough, eventually I'd wake up and you'd be a memory instead of a presence.

But you're not.

You're still here.

In the music.

In the quiet.

In the spaces between conversations.

In the version of my future I still haven't completely buried.

And maybe that's unfair.

Maybe it's unhealthy.

Maybe I've built too much meaning around what we were.

But I can't sit here and pretend it isn't true.

Because the truth is that I still carry you.

Every day.

I carry the sound of your laugh.

The things you trusted me enough to tell me.

The things you never said out loud.

The version of you that the rest of the world doesn't always get to see.

I carry all of it.

And I think the reason this hurts so much is because I never just loved the version of you that was easy.

I loved the complicated parts.

The guarded parts.

The wounded parts.

The parts that thought they were too much.

The parts that thought they weren't enough.

And I know you don't see yourself the way I see you.

I know that.

But I wish you could.

Just once.

I wish you could see the woman I see.

The one who survived things that should have broken her.

The one who keeps going even when she's exhausted.

The one who is so much more lovable than she will ever allow herself to believe.

And maybe that's why I can't let go.

Not because I think you're perfect.

Not because I think love is supposed to conquer everything.

But because loving you felt like recognizing someone.

Like finding a familiar song I somehow already knew the words to.

Like meeting someone who felt less like a stranger and more like a memory.

So when people tell me to move on, I understand why.

What they don't understand is that I'm not trying to let go of a relationship.

I'm trying to let go of someone who feels woven into the fabric of who I became after I met her.

And I don't know how to do that yet.

Maybe one day I will.

Maybe one day you'll just be a chapter.

Maybe one day this ache won't follow me around anymore.

But today isn't that day.

Today the truth is still simple.

I hear a new song and I think of you.

I have a good day and I think of you.

I look up at the moon and I think of you.

I catch myself smiling and wonder if you'd smile too.

And in the quietest moments, when there is nobody left to impress and nowhere left to hide...

I still love you.

Not in a way that asks you to save me.

Not in a way that asks you to come back.

Not in a way that asks you to be anything other than who you are.

Just in the way a heart sometimes refuses to forget.

And if this is the last thing you ever hear from me...

then let it be the truth.

A part of me is still yours.

No shoreline.

No stars to follow.

No sense of direction.

Water in every direction and thoughts of her that consume me.

I know I should swim for shore.

I know I should fight for steady ground, for air, for something safe enough to keep me alive.

I know there are people in my life who would tell me to keep kicking. To stop romanticizing the storm. To stop confusing chaos for connection.

Maybe they’d be right.

But the truth?

Every part of me wants to surrender to the pull of her not because I don’t know better.

Because I do.

That’s what makes this harder.

I know what happens if I stop fighting.

And still there’s something almost beautiful about it. Something intoxicating about letting the current take me.

About feeling her memory wrap around my chest like the ocean itself decided I don’t belong on land anymore.

That even with my lungs burning even with every rational part of me screaming to swim there’s another part

That wants to sink.

Not because I want to die there.

The silence.

The distance.

The slow fading of someone who once felt close enough to touch.

You’d think by now I’d be used to it.

You’d think after all the times life has taught me what it feels like to reach for something and come back empty, I’d stop expecting it to hurt this much.

But it does.

Every. Single. Time.

And what messes with me the most is that this should be the moment I lean into what’s right in front of me.

This should make me appreciate stability.

Consistency.

The person who actually chooses to stay.

This should make me want to build something safer. Something healthier. Something real.

So why does it do the opposite?

Why does the moment I feel her pulling away… every part of me want to run back toward the exact thing that’s breaking me?

Why does distance not make me detach?

Why does it make me want more?

That’s the part I hate admitting.

That there’s something in me that doesn’t want peace when it’s offered.

There’s something in me that still wants *her.*

Not the easy version.

Not the fantasy.

Not the highlight reel I replay when I can’t sleep.

I mean *her.*

The complicated version.

The unavailable version.

The version that doesn’t fully choose me.

And maybe that says something ugly about me.

Maybe there’s a part of me that still mistakes longing for love.

Maybe there’s a part of me that still confuses being chosen with having to earn it.

Because when she goes quiet…

I don’t become stronger.

I don’t become detached.

I become aware of how badly some part of me still wants her attention.

Even now.

Even knowing better.

Even knowing she’s not standing there asking me to fight for her.

It’s me.

It’s always been me.

Standing in the middle of my own life…

trying to figure out why the things that hurt the most