I'm finding it harder and harder to write about you.
And it's not because I don't feel anything for you anymore. In the quiet of the night, I can still admit that I care for you. I deny my feelings only when a mutual friend asks me if I still care for you. Deny deny deny. Deny it so well that I convince myself that all I felt for you is gone. That no remnants of you remain in my heart.
And it's not because all of my questions have been answered. I still wonder what was going through your head all along. I still wonder what I did to push you away, or if you ever pulled away at all. I sometimes self-sabotage. Did I do it again with you? Self-sabotage is a funny thing, isn't it? I've done it so many times it's a reflex now.
And it's not because my issues with how things played out have been resolved. I fantasize about what would have happened if I'd stayed away from you from the get-go. I still wonder what might have happened if I'd acted braver, or if I'd been more honest with myself. I admit that I believe my own lies a lot more than cold hard facts. I manipulate myself so easily; play tricks on myself. What was there was never really there. Or was it?
And it's not even because you've moved on and I'm still figuring out how I feel. I'm happy that you're happy. I'm happy that you figured out what I intuited. I lie to myself so much that I often confuse my own selfish desires with what I know is best, so I'm happy at least one of us was honest. Sure, the truth cuts deeper than any knife, but I appreciated it all the same.
I don't know why I can't write about you anymore, but I fear it's because my mind knows that it's time to close the door on all of our memories. I fear my mind is ready to move on, despite my heart's unwillingness. My heart clings, my mind pushes; haven't I always said that?
Anxious. I am anxious. Anxious because I don't want to close the door on you. I don't want to forget about you. I don't want to move on. Anxious because there's a part of me that is still convinced that our story isn't over yet. So I keep opening the door again, only to find that you're still gone. I keep forcing myself to remember, even though each memory is hazy and blurry and I cannot pinpoint my exact emotions. I don't want to forget, don't want to stop writing, but I think I'm ready. I'm ready to close the door, bolt it shut, turn the lock, and seal all the windows.
I'm erratic. All over the place. I cannot write about you anymore. And it's all because I don't want to give you up.
And it's not because all of my questions have been answered. I still wonder what was going through your head all along. I still wonder what I did to push you away, or if you ever pulled away at all. I sometimes self-sabotage. Did I do it again with you? Self-sabotage is a funny thing, isn't it? I've done it so many times it's a reflex now.
And it's not because my issues with how things played out have been resolved. I fantasize about what would have happened if I'd stayed away from you from the get-go. I still wonder what might have happened if I'd acted braver, or if I'd been more honest with myself. I admit that I believe my own lies a lot more than cold hard facts. I manipulate myself so easily; play tricks on myself. What was there was never really there. Or was it?
And it's not even because you've moved on and I'm still figuring out how I feel. I'm happy that you're happy. I'm happy that you figured out what I intuited. I lie to myself so much that I often confuse my own selfish desires with what I know is best, so I'm happy at least one of us was honest. Sure, the truth cuts deeper than any knife, but I appreciated it all the same.
I don't know why I can't write about you anymore, but I fear it's because my mind knows that it's time to close the door on all of our memories. I fear my mind is ready to move on, despite my heart's unwillingness. My heart clings, my mind pushes; haven't I always said that?
Anxious. I am anxious. Anxious because I don't want to close the door on you. I don't want to forget about you. I don't want to move on. Anxious because there's a part of me that is still convinced that our story isn't over yet. So I keep opening the door again, only to find that you're still gone. I keep forcing myself to remember, even though each memory is hazy and blurry and I cannot pinpoint my exact emotions. I don't want to forget, don't want to stop writing, but I think I'm ready. I'm ready to close the door, bolt it shut, turn the lock, and seal all the windows.
I'm erratic. All over the place. I cannot write about you anymore. And it's all because I don't want to give you up.
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