And I have realised that loving you is the same as breathing, repetitive, constant, and is what keeps me alive at this point. I know that at this time, I’m supposed to move on, to have the songs just the way they are with no meaning whatsoever, to have stories that I can never relate to. It’s a world I long to go back to, as much as I feel otherwise. This time, I’m still not over you. I now know that losing you isn’t as easy as counting to three, and believe me, I have tried to keep you in shortened breaths as possible. I just didn’t know you were such a difficult one to lose.
Out of everyone I felt for, you were the only one I really, genuinely cared about. You listened to everything I said, laughed with me, and was just there. I have never really made the effort of trying to care for something I don’t, but you made me do just that. Maybe that’s another reason why it’s so difficult to let you go: you made a huge part of me change, and that’s probably bigger than you can imagine. I’m not used to change, in fact, I’m very resistant towards it. You brought me back to the present, instead of watching me mope in the past.
But you see, that’s what’s painful about caring for you. I’d only depend on the memories of us, and not really you at all. When I breathe you in, a very quiet kind of pain accompanies me, and I can’t seem to breathe you out. I hesitate because it’s me wanting to go backwards again, trying to remember the first time you caught my eye. You know, I’m trying, I hope you know that. I hope you know that this is all for you. Nothing beats the present, right? Can’t we just have that instead?
I’m not closing you out, and I’m not giving in. I breathe the air that now has you in it, and I breathe you out slowly, overwhelmed with who you are. At some point, I will lose you and a part of me goes with it, the part where we had. But that’s the thing about breathing. Sometimes, it’s difficult to filter out what I don’t need, but I wouldn’t know what I’d end up with anyway.