Late night thoughts and memories flashing to remind me of when we were beautiful. The husk of what remains barely held together as we both pull away. I sit and remember the way you’d always want your hands on me, maybe to make sure I was real, the same way I could kiss you all day, your mouth the perfect feel.
I miss that like it was ripped away from me a phantom limb I’m longing to see. I wish we could go back. To before I had feelings and less selfishly before it hit you. Hit you that you actually liked me. That you wanted more of me, even if I wasn’t ready for what you were ready for. What you thought you were ready for. In reality, when it got good, got more real you pushed me away. Put your hands in front and told me to pick but both hands were empty.
I thought, maybe this is short term, things will be back soon, but one month turned to two, three, four, and my soul is dragging trying to carry everything I thought we would be. Because I’d never had hope before but when I did, once I did, you shut me out. Little by little whittling the fire out of me. The surety I’d grown to have that you would protect me, nourish me, lead me where we needed to be.
Every time I sit. Every time I think of how much that hope cost me I want to scream. It seems like all I want to do these days is scream.
Wanderer 