It is these little things about you that makes me smile about the most inane things. These little things that are too easy to hear but never to understand. But you always listened to everything I said no matter how inconsequential and insignificant it was. You were the first person in years I was this honest to.
I am afraid to write about you. Not because I am afraid of showing you how I feel; I know this isn’t reciprocated and I know that this honesty will only push you away, maybe for good. I’m scared because the more I write about you, the more I begin falling in love with this projected image of you. I begin falling in love with this static person in my memory and not the real you. And though I know that these qualities may not change and that these memories are only a few weeks young, it is always dangerous to fall in love with an apparition—especially a fleeting one.
Because we all want to believe that we are loved. Because we are told that if we do good things in the world, good things will happen to us. Because we fundamentally want to believe in “the one” and that the fairytales we were raised on were more than just fictional stories. Because we see happiness elude us and we desperately yearn for that human carnal instinct — companionship. It’s way too easy to overthink the meanings of a hand on the curvatures of your back guiding you across a busy street and it’s far too easy to become infatuated with the first person who you’ve felt a spark with in years.
But this is reality. Things don’t go the way we want them to. You could say that this isn’t fate, or you could say that these are the woes of life. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how you choose to justify it, because at the end of the day, we don’t get everything we want.
To being honest, earnest, and present. To giving the greatest gift you could have ever given to me: reminding me that sparks do exist and to never compromise for anything less.
I know that all of this will amount to nothing and I know that this will be another ache, but at least I can walk away knowing how it truly feels to have loved and lost.
You’ll rip out the pages, you’ll use them to mask your memories. You’ll take what’s left to make a sail, you’ll let the wind catch and cast you. The waves will stir and storm, they’ll wash the tears from your face, they’ll pull you from your anchored pain. They’ll write a gentle rhythm, they’ll rock you into a rest and with enough miles and minutes, they’ll get you back to dreaming.