Sick of constantly letting you go

I think I’m getting sick.

I’m getting sick of this situation, this constant grief. I’m getting sick of going through our old conversations and realizing how deep of meaning and how huge of an impact you have had on me. I’m getting sick of your voice being the only thing able to calm me down. I’m getting sick of these thoughts in my head, and it makes me ache that you’re not around anymore.

I miss us so much. But mostly, I miss you in a way that makes my headache, I miss you enough for it to make my heart bleed, and I lust for you enough that it makes me go insane. I crave your lips on my neck, and your touch upon my skin, and those soft kisses on my cheek before you leave. I miss having you to myself, I miss the nights you made love to me, and I miss waking up the next morning in the sweet clasp of your arms.

I know I am selfish and impulsive and self-sufficient and difficult to want. I know my skin is cracked and my mind polluted, yet so full of your name. But mostly, I am so greedy and simultaneously indecisive, because even after all this time, even after every single way that I’ve hurt you, there are still days when I am still thirsty for another piece of your soul, or having your hand slightly brush my cheek and then stroke the strands of my hair, or shoving my face inside the comforting smell of your neck- and I want you to myself again. These days I’d be willing to give up anything and anyone to have us back.

And then, there are days like this, that I am so full of these empty, non-sense thoughts, knowing that I finally need to let go of the idea of us, to let myself forget, maybe because it’s easier that way.

But how could I forget? How could I set us free when we left such a great love behind? When I still notice those sweet melancholic glimpses you take of me, and when I saw how much you’ve missed me in your eyes last night? How could I leave you when I need you like a baby every time you wrap me around you and how could I even remotely love someone the way I did you?

Maybe the problem is that we are too much alike. Perhaps the fact that we are so special and separate from this world, lost in our artistic nature and in how much we actually want each other, although we are never able to admit it. How we both shut ourselves down and find comfort in loneliness, yet keep seeking the company of somebody else, just to not be overtaken by our solitude and not feel alienated. Above all, seeking feelings that will never come, only to find ourselves drowning in shipwrecks in the end.

And it’s so sorrowful that you thought I forgot. If only you knew how many nights I have fallen asleep with you in my head, and when you jokingly said that I was playing double cross and two-timing you, even if we’re really no different from each other; we try to forget what we had wandering around in new beds, only to end up in each other’s familiar arms, wanting to take all of this frustration out on one another.

I have a fair share of faults as well –I’d never let you take all the blame– but I should stop mistaking salt for sugar and tricking us both into thinking that what we have is more than moments we just lose ourselves in for a while, allowing our minds a getaway. It probably just hurts this badly because of the way I love you, or because of how attached we have become; so many more things that I can’t even put into words.

The worst part is that we find prodigy by torturing each other. But the point is, I don’t want to hurt you anymore, simply because that’s not the meaning of love. And possibly, maybe, when you truly do love someone, you stop caring about your own needs and let them go if you know that it is what’s best – no matter how sickly you might need them in your life.

I really hope you’re happy. I really hope you find a love that will be all ours couldn’t be. I have great expectations for you, and I know that you’ll somehow do good in your own way. But please remember everything I said that night, keep them rooted somewhere and at least know how I truly see you and how I’ve always felt because you give me no choice but to walk away for now.

You know, sometimes I have this strange wish: I wish that our love was a book, so I could edit the ending as I do with all the things I write, making it happier, less brutal and less messy.

But baby, maybe we truly, inevitably, inescapably are, and always will be, an unfinished story.