scherzo in b minor

In hindsight I could have always done better, but I don't regret the ways I loved you. I shared my day-to-day, I asked about yours, I invited you to travel with me wherever I would go, although I could tell you never wanted to come. Maybe it was impossible to overcome our incompatibilities from the start.

i miss your large hands and crooked fingers, and the way you like to rub my thumb when we walk hand in hand

i miss your soft cheeks

i miss your fluffy hair that bounces like palm tree fronds when you've just gotten out of bed

i miss the way you look as if you are angry all the time, but then your unexpected smile lights up your face

i miss how gentle you are with your baby nephews

i miss sleeping with my head on your shoulder, even when your snoring kept me awake

i miss your soft voice

i miss the way you would ramble endlessly about any topic, and how sometimes you misunderstood what i said and talked about something completely different (i wish i had been more patient with you)

i miss your green stussy hoodie, your black arcteryx jacket, your yankees baseball cap (i wish i had taken it when you offered it to me), your nike killshots

i miss how you used to send me pictures of your cooking

i miss all the silly little things you did to make me laugh

i miss the way you said my name

I still hope that you'll respond to me with the same care I still give you. Your silence is another heartbreak. I miss the daily rhythm with you, the comfort of your voice and immediate presence. It's a quiet rejection when I send a message, and I wait... and wait... and get a nothing but short reply hours later.

But I can't let You go. I need to stay connected, to soften this crash. I keep our thread alive, but every slow reply chips away at me. I'm draining myself in fear of disappearing from your world entirely, worried that if I step back, you'll move on, forget me, and let go completely. Small talk costs you nothing, but I cling to even a scrap of attention. But I know this version of you I am talking to is a different person; I'm talking to Your emotional ghost.

I am a willing prisoner, chaining myself to you while you're walking away. I'm afraid of Your loss more than my pain. You don't show that you want to stay emotionally close, and you aren't obligated to! But I still sit at your table, hoping to taste your cooking, starving myself. I know it's not enough, it's just that letting go feels like death.

There's a gaping hole near the top of my sternum. It's centered on my chest--not over my heart, but perhaps where my soul is housed. When I think of you thinking of her, it burns. With each message, each word, each thought, you fill me smoldering coals, placing them slowly one by one. My flesh sears and turns black. When did you tear me open?