I have routinely imagined the things I would say to you if you ever decided to come back. The first words are often “I’m sorry.” Sorry for the lies. Sorry for taking you for granted. Sorry for expecting that you would never leave, when you had every right to. The next words that come to mind are usually, “I’ve missed you.” Missed the way we slept. Missed the way you scrunch your nose. Missed the way you kissed me. And after I picture your smile, and the way it feels to have you hug me like you used to, I think of the words, “I love you.” I love your kind and gentle spirit. I love the way you kiss me. And most importantly, I love the way you love love, and the way you loved our love.
If this moment ever decides to come, those three things will be enough. After all, telling you that I’m sorry, and that I’ve missed you, and that I love you are things I can only dream about telling you now. But besides that fact, there won’t be much else to say. Because nothing–no words, no poetry, no story I could possibly tell or say, could ever encapsulate the way it felt to be without you. How does one convey the feeling of leaving your side of the bed empty? Or the way it felt to hang up the phone without an “I love you.” How could I ever begin to tell you what it was like to kiss another man that was not you, or to watch the movies we loved without you wrapped around me?
I have prayed often to a God I’m not sure about, in hopes that He will hear me, and bring you back to me. Other days I have asked Him to give you comfort and joy, because I couldn’t anymore. And even some days, I have prayed that you might find someone else. So that the world could see again the look in your eyes when you’re in love. Because what a shame it is that the sun sets, and rises again without that look in your blue eyes, anymore. And as I write this, I pray of many more days of your smile, the sound your laugh, and your voice saying “I love you”—even if those days are not mine to share.
I have accepted this time, for now, as our end. The end of our era. The death of the perplexing combination that is “us.” And in this death, I have buried you in the t-shirt hanging in my closet, the record you forgot to take home, and the notes written in your messy handwriting. Yet your spirit still lingers in the songs you love, the smell of your cologne, and the bitter air of approaching fall. Much like a death, I still feel you in the sweater I wore to your family Christmas party. I feel you in the empty passenger seat as I drive home. And trust me when I tell you that I’m desperately trying to resurrect you. Desperately trying to bring you back, and breathe life into the crime scene that is moments without you.
Your touch is on my sheets. The books we read are on my shelf. And your ghost still lingers in our favorite record stores, the table in that restaurant by the window, and that stoplight where I knew I loved you. But the truth is, you’re not a ghost. You are living and breathing, but more importantly, you are living and breathing without me. You wake up without me. You drink your morning coffee without me. You cry without me. You live your life without me. And that’s what’s worse, is that you’re not gone at all. You’re a phone-call, you’re a text, you’re a short drive away, and I have to pretend you’re dead anyway.
I am addicted to you, and I’m not get ready to get sober. I am lovesick over you, and I’m not ready to get better. I want to be sick. And broken. And hurt. Because to have moments of happiness and joy that you are not the cause of, is the most unnatural proposition in the universe. You are joy. You are light. But my world will learn how to survive without the sun that is you, anyway. Because in the end, you are not the sun—I am.