why? because its always been you..

Dearest,

This is like getting an able hand severed; forgetting the keys to my room, words, my way to home, your face. I am once again unable to write and die little deaths.

This is like going back to kindergarten. At recess, I have to fight with the other children over who gets to have a go at the slide or the swing first, or who gets to seesaw with whom. I remember the play wounds, the way they bleed into horrible scars. Scars, the damage of which I carry (with pride?) to adulthood, the very things that make me remember that I was once happy and free, the things that make me regret being so reckless and criminal.

In more ways, this is like a sin so severe it is punishable by death or banishment to a world devoid of color, feeling, you. This is like drowning in guilt after getting drunk with it. How I love losing control over my body, my tongue, my senses, and how I kick myself moments after waking up with an atrocious migraine attack. I both love and hate it, like when I love waking up in mornings knowing you are here somewhere, and/or hating it because even if you are here, I still cannot reach you.

This is like riding a bus with no money for fare, or watching cheesy movies and blaming myself for being so mundane. This is like you telling me to wait, and me telling you that I’ve done all I could to have you even if I haven’t.

You are somebody else’s, and this is like death, not the kind of death I’m willing to do over and again. This is like the genocide in Auschwitz and Cambodia. This is agony without reason.

You are somebody else’s, and this is like getting my able hand severed with a butter knife. This is like forgetting my childhood. This is like everything I want to erase, every memory, every scar, every sin, every pain. This is like wanting to delete you like junk mail. This is everything I don’t want to have because I cannot afford to have them.

Remembrance. This is like being unable to write and die little deaths everyday for you. This is like saying I love you out loud, and wishing that you’ll hold my hand this morning and hereafter.

(This is like me making no sense at all because of you.)

I could have given you everything: the dorky smile, a bottle stopper, a piece of the sky. I could have given you the kind of love you need, and the mornings after when we decided to wait on each other. I could have given you no room to stop and think. I could have made you love me.

You could be here, holding my hand and telling me to stop being an ass (something that you always used to tell me because I am). You could be everything that I hoped for, that thing that will make me drown in the calm waves of wakefulness. You could have loved me.

They say I should forget, slay the memories that I have of you when you are at your most serene. Or maybe I should have just stopped waiting on you to tell me that the mornings, our mornings would be glorious because we have each other.

I’ve been remiss. I should forget you. Someday or in another morning.

Someday...