(Alternative title: the stages of grief, part deux)
1. How come the things that used to matter don’t matter anymore, especially with you? It frustrates me that at some point in this lifetime, we’ll see each other again, and you’ll look at me with an innocent smile plastered on your face and say, “hi.” As if nothing ever happened. Or are you going to ghost by me, as if we both once lived and now dead to one another, without even a moment’s notice that we had our moments?
2. It’s funny because things are becoming ordinary again, and your possession over the mundane has almost erased itself completely. But you know it’s harder to let go of once was than what never was, maybe because you still have that belief that things will work out in the end.
3. I wish these words would run dry but they haven’t. I don’t think it’s because of you per se, but it’s more like I had so many things unsaid that will themselves to speak, as if my head isn’t enough to store all of it, all of you. There are evenings where I remember our mornings and mornings where I remember our evenings. It’s funny how you remember so much, and when you do want to forget, the things you most want to lose always are found. Opposites attract because the difference always matters over sameness.
4. There are times where everything else still lingers, as if I am in this state where I deny that everything I held onto was now lost. I wish I could tell you how much you meant to me, but at the same time, it disgusts me how your significance was the only imprint I held onto for months, as if you were the only one who held me. You weren’t. It’s just that you were the most outstanding, and you didn’t even try. I hate that you didn’t try.
5. The terrible thing about loving a person is the idea aftermath of it. You believe that this could happen again because he had that in him to do so, which is even harder to lose in the end. I’d have to admit, you’re fighting a great battle in my head as we speak, but everyday I come back to push you away further and further, until you raise your white flag — and it’s back to living as you, I again.
6. Numbers cannot contain the commonality, especially since with you, everything was so fluid. We’d end somewhere and begin in the middle, as if it were an endless conversation with pauses in between. Rewinding them now doesn’t hold as much as heartbeats as it did months back, when everything mattered, when we both mattered.