Summary: I will write for you. (Even though, really, I want to write to you.)
Notes: I do not even know. ;.; <3 I think maybe I should make a post where I can just constantly update it with all of my little bits and pieces like this one is, because I do not want to spam anybody with all of these things and. ;.; This is a little bit for somebody, and it is, always, a little bit for me. Please ignore me, though. But I hope that you like it if you read it, because I honestly just wrote this in a tiny little bubble of inspiration and feeling and so I do not think it is too good, I just did, and it is probably no good but, oh. I miss you, all of you. All the time. <3333 And if you read this, thank you, more than you know. <3
The hard thing: is missing you. Remembering my body is not your body, not that your body is not mine (because that is never hard, because I always knew that part, because it never is). Waking-up alone, and living alone, and falling asleep alone. Pretending that every day of my life is the waiting period for you to come back, like one day you will tell me, 'I'm sorry it took me so long', and I will say 'but you came back', and you will say 'always', and I will just say '-you-', breathless and shakey and warm. And for once you will love me back.
Because there's no room for me in you. And we both know it, and we both had hopes, dreams, and fantasies--, maybe somehow, in a miracle of science, the openness of your chest would expand and I would inch my way in, centimeter by centimeter, through poems and lovesongs and little smiles, and you would think, 'yes, I could love you', and I would laugh and cry because I already did. Love you, I mean.
Because I could speak to you again, I could call you and write you and kiss your fingertips with my words and you would respond, right, wouldn't you, you always will. But it will not be the same, because I know you don't want me to do any of these things, so I will write for you instead of to you, and maybe this will make you happier than the other things I dream about.
I would have loved you, more than you know. But I will write for you instead.
Because I can't think of you for all the doctor's tests, because you make my chest do funny things and the heart-monitors all yelp. Because sometimes I think of you anyways. You're like a prayer and I have never been religious but here you are, I would be a nun for you, I would hold back kisses and sharp breaths and little stuttery confessions to anybody else I may ever have loved in my life if you ever just asked me to, but the thing is:
You do not want me to. I love you, even if you don't love me back, but, you want more than me accepting your un-love, you want the opposite of shaking knees and soft eyes and stories, because you want me to be disinterested and detached and de-loved, you want abandonment and forgetting-me-nows and yesteryears, you want yesterday and I want tomorrow, and the hardest part is:
You want yesterday, and I just want today.
But I won't tell you. Living like a sad thing, living off of deep breathing and songs you gave me and old letters you've sent, memorizing your words and living inside your paragraphs and falling in love with your stanzas as deeply as I could've fallen in love with you, as deeply as I could fall in love with you now, because we all know, I need to fall in love with something, but here is me and there is you, and you say 'tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow', but this is today, it is today. And all you give me is yesterday anyways, and the hard thing:
is missing you. Is knowing that I will be okay, even without you.
Everything reminds me of you. Some persons hate this, throw away books and movies and sob themselves silly over old scarves and the time of the year it was when they met you and sometimes they wish they could scratch off the mouth they kissed you with and the hands they touched you with and the chest they loved you with but me, me, I never do. I will love these things instead of you, because you are unintentionally kind, and sometimes I think you left all these things for me, to love when I can't love you, anymore.
Because I could love you. I could still love you. You didn't think about this. But I am glad, because I do not want, a part of me, your coping mechanisms, your soothing words, your consolation heart, your gentle voice, your body here when you aren't, my thought of you when you aren't, my dream of you when you aren't, a piece of you you would undoubtedly tear off and give to me to spare me from this, whatever this even is. I know you would do anything for me. Not because I am me, but because you would do anything for anybody. And I am anybody to you, but the thing is, in all truth, I want to be somebody to you, and I am not, I'm not, I'm just not.
Let me have my consolatory heart-ache, instead. Let me cry and sob and kick my feet, throw my hands up into the air, shut my eyes tight against the ceiling and the empty bed and the no-you-ness of it all and love you again and again and, again.
Let me have all this. And I promise. (I want to write for you, but...) I will write to you instead.
Let me finish my stories and my lines and all my stanzas and let me breathe your name into the air because sometimes that fills up my chest more than oxygen but when you are around I cannot get enough of either, and really, let me love you, just for a little while.
I will write for you, I will write for you, I will write for you. It sounds very close to 'I will wait for you'. It is not that, but it is almost that, and you will have to love me like you love everything, because I know you can't love me like -something-, and that is okay, but for now:
I will write for you, I will write for you, I will write for you. It almost sounds like 'I will wait for you'. It almost is. Let me have my lovesongs and my thoughts of you and my stanzas with the little dotted-'i's and let me love you, just for a little while. Just for now.
I will write for you. Again.