Written By Daniel. 

Let’s start with the fundamentals. I love you. I can’t stop; it’s not my choice. I don’t think it ever was. I am pretty sure you know it and if you don’t then you’re a fucking moron. It’s kind of obvious even if there’s a couple of oceans and continents between us, even if it’s been years (God, it’s been so long…) since we last saw each other. All you have to do to verify it is ask me. But see, I don’t think you will ever do that because you are not going to like the answer.

You moved on quite easily and I envy you for that. I envy you so much that you are able to sleep with other people, have sex with them, dance and smile and live your life without anything holding you back. I envy you because in the small hours of the night I am sitting here thinking of you. Tonight was another fucking night I could not sleep because in my dreams we made love, we cuddled, and I didn’t even think about it twice when you asked if I love you and I answered “Yes, I love you.”

You can disregard this, but how many men will you find in your life that will not think twice when you ask them? Not as a routine, not as a habitual phrase right before you sleep, but as a storm that will blow you away. That is how much I love you, that’s how much I envy all the bodies you touch, that is why I’m desperate at the prospect of spending my life without you.

Yes, it’s been a long time, yes, my façade is pretty good – but we both know I’m a good liar and I will be for the rest of my life. I despise the reality and the world where I’m not by your side, I spit on everything that makes you want something else.

I spit on it and respect it, because, see, I can’t make you happy and that is nobody’s fault. Yet it’s my greatest failure. Some things are not meant to be, some are. I try hard to keep you out of my mind and in most cases I do – I watch porn, masturbate, read books, listen to music, watch series, movies, drink, argue, fight; you name it.

The capacity people have to forget is severely underestimated. Why the fuck to I remember every bit of your body, why do I still remember every little mark on your body, why is your taste something I would pay all I have to try again?

Why do you have to be so god damn beautiful, and so damn imperfect at the same time, and yet ideal in my sick mind. So much so, that I dream and dream and cannot find a difference between nightmares and the good ones because all that is good is what is killing me. Αs I write these lines I think of kissing you, and yet all I fear is that by the time I find the guts to knock on your door  –so hard that I bring it down– and tell you all of it in person, you’ll be somewhere else, with someone else.

It used to be easy, when you were with someone, to hate their face, to envy all the chances they had to make you happy, to give you orgasms, to hug you when a thunderstorm erupted.

Not knowing might be better, but time does not heal. Memories become more vivid instead of fading away. I know that forgetting means remembering without feeling the pain, but all I see is you, all I want is to talk to you. All I want is the image of you in my mind; one that probably does not represent who you are.

Or so I tell myself.
Because if you are as I remember you, then compromising is all I can do from now on…

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