There is so much I wish I'd shared with you before you disappeared from my life. I wish I'd told you how deeply I actually feel for you, even in such a short time. I truly believe time is the wrong currency for sentiment. The moments we were together (but not together), I learned how to be present. I made myself about you, and for you, in the seconds that stretched for an eternity. I'd watch you type and feel my heart fibrillate, hear the pounding of my mortal shell in my ears, ache with the rush of warm blood that gave away my secrets. I remember clearly thinking how I wished those moments would last forever, and I knew they'd slip away like the sun dies for each day. I reminded myself to be fully present in those moments with you, and to give you whatever I was capable of, for however long we lasted.
I think you probably had me: from the second you spoke of religion as a paradigm for purpose, rather than a relic of history. We met in the twilight, bonded in philosophy and unabashed honesty. A part of me knew I might feel something, but I knew it was too soon and I needed to pause my descent. If my resistance is a precipice, my emotion would either talk me down or shove me forwards into the descent. I slipped, and I fell face-first into you and your warmth.
You really saw me, didn't you? I'm always afraid to remove my mask, to let myself off of my leash. I'm like a puppy, or a small child: I conform to social expectations in interactions. I follow the unspoken rules, I contain my zest for connection, deep love and the chemistry I feel with people. I mute myself to keep the people around me comfortable. I colour myself in sepia so I don't blind others with my vibrance. But I see the world in a broader spectrum of colours than most, and the things I feel are unimaginable. I never told you just how deeply you connected to me. I was afraid if you saw that part of me you'd wince, burn and run. Maybe I'm the sun; except for sunrise and sunset, people can't look at me. I am intense, I make their eyes water, and I burn them out if they're around me too long. I'd really hoped I wouldn't burn you, too.
You're such an incredible person, and for once I felt out of my depth in meeting you eye to eye. I admired your thoughtful disposition, the way you'd grown through your pain and emerged empowered and strong. You were like the drug inside of my head (and I'm in withdrawal); every word, every sentiment, every invisible touch had me at your knees. You were like ecstasy for every atom of my being, every thought in my soul. I'm so weak for you and I keep hoping, dreaming, you'll come back for me one day soon.
I really can't let you go, but I can respect your need to be away from me. When you disappeared, I thought I'd let go. Instead, the mental barricade I'd erected against myself overflowed, and the dam burst. The water is stained with my grief and tears, and these painful words.
The road stretched out before me is a long and tortuous one, and I feign ignorance to the destination. I seem to always know but choose to not know, before things play out like a bad script. I am scared, and I refuse to abandon the things I love like the things I love abandoned me. There is suffering in the avant-garde.
Do you still think of me? Do you linger over our smouldering romance, extracting warmth before it's extinguished? Are you reading this now, or have you turned your back on me forever? I kept all of you, and us, because I don't discard. I think I understand a little more about why you left, and I hope my assumption is right. I want to believe that you felt more than you let on, that your dam burst too, that you evacuated so you wouldn't drown. I don't want to believe I was too much for you, or that it wasn't worth the effort- because if the situation were reversed, I'd wait for you for forever and a day. I am the eternal romantic, and this is probably too much for anyone.
This is what I have for you, and I can't let it go. I'll keep aside a piece of my heart, in case you come back for me one day.