I wonder.
I wonder if you ever think of us—the way it used to be.
Not in those last moments, you see, but as the cool summer breeze blew
The way you’d hold me tight, caressing my brunette hair.
The way you’d softly whisper my name or shoo away my pestering pokes.
The way you’d omit words you were scared to say.
The way you’d quietly say goodnight through the old-fashioned phone?
The way you’d pull me close as the moon shone bright.
The way you’d gaze at me, a delicate smile plastered upon your handsome, angular face.
The way your toned, muscular physique pressed against mine.
Do I ever even cross your mind? Do you even care?
I remember.
I remember the pain.
I remember the words you spoke—the ones that dug at me.
The ones that cut through the tough exterior, penetrating the wounded parts of me. The parts I never displayed. Never disclosed.
I remember.
I remember it all.
And, although it transpired years ago, you were the first.
The first.
The first of many yet to come. My first drink. My first taste. My first step.
Supposedly, my first love.
I guess you’ll always hold a piece of me.
A fraction, a minuscule slither of the person I have become.
I guess we’ll always share certain memories—but those now seem irrelevant.
In the end, it all became too much—a toxic addition to what was already a dangerous equation.
But, along the way, you taught me so much.
So many invaluable lessons.
Presenting to my young-self careful considerations, subtle lessons I had never contemplated, never understood.
You taught me kindness, within the face of adversity—in its most genuine and honest presentation.
You also taught me to be strong
And unyielding in the pursuit for fulfillment as you so distastefully questioned my intelligence and appearance.
My impressionable mind was young and naïve—far too naïve, far too optimistic, far too timid, far too insecure, far too meek.
Far too doubtful of the capabilities I now know I possess.
Stuck.
Stuck within the world of forged love. And fake promises.
Touched by the destructive need for assurance and distraction.
Stuck. Hurt. Damaged. Abused.
But, nevertheless, I thank you.
For now, I am self-assured. And confident. And humble. And most significantly so, content.
I found strength in the pain. In our pain.
And I found the answers lying within the abyss.
You once meant so much—far too much to me.
And now, it is only but a dissociated memory.
The subtle impact lives on, you see.
But you, my dear, now mean nothing to me.