Usually, I play it cool. This is so me not playing it cool.
Sometimes I feel so hard, I don’t even know what words there are to describe my feelings…It’s like my heart presses up against my rib cage, until it rubs the edges raw.
I got some good closure recently. From someone who regards me as a good friend.
A good friend.
I hope I am a good enough person to be friends with this boy. I honestly am not sure, though, because, I felt some sort of love for him.
Not love-love, but a kind of love nonetheless.
He was someone with whom I knew I had no future; our paths only crossed for a few months. Still, when I was near him, I conveniently forgot that we would simply be a moment in my life; nothing longer – nothing more serious. How easy is it for one’s brain to forget such simple concepts? What epic flaws in grandiose plans we ignore for this love-like thing.
My lover. Oh, he did not love me. Not at all. He liked me. But, he had no room in his heart for my love. He did not love me. I say that more for me to read again and again than for you. He did not love me. Did.Not.Love.Me.
And that hurts. I want to be loved. Deeply and every day of my life. Still, it is better to be aware of someone’s real feelings than to distress yourself with intricate imaginings of what could be if only…
if only he felt the same….
if only he didn’t care about reality either…
if only he cared enough about me…
He would be here. He would crash into my life once more.
I know that’s not the answer – as much instant gratification I could glean from a tryst, the cruelest and kindest thing he could do is cash in his open invitation to my life. Cruel because I would once again hit the proverbial pause button and apply blinders to any other potential lovers (I swear, I was designed for monogamy) and kind because I want nothing more than to satiate this hunger for his smell and feel of his touch. My body writhes in withdrawal. The chemistry in my brain is off balance.
I cry for one more touch. Just one more embrace. One more.
I cry for my loss.
I didn’t want to “move on.” But, he released me. Gave me his blessing for moving on to new lovers. He asked to remain friends.
I hope I can do it.
Really, I doubt I’m strong enough to carry the burden of lover to friend as I move on. I don’t know if I have the class, poise and self-control. I want to stay friends with him, but I don’t expect we will. I expect it to be too damn hard.
I question my motives – do I lash out and attempt to elicit a jealous response?
That’s a terrible idea. There is no feeling worse than the lack of a response – there is nothing worse than them simply not caring. And I know he doesn’t care. Why force reminders on myself with empty affairs?
I question my feelings – what is this love-like thing sitting like a shattered brick in my stomach? How deep did it run? To where would I have followed it? I shiver to think. I stop asking questions.
I know only one thing for certain – I can’t be angry. Not at him, as his intentions were made clear at the start and never changed. Not at myself as my feelings have never been reined in tightly. No, there is no anger. Just tears. And hurt. And emptiness.
And the loneliness of another break in my oh-so-fragile heart.