Of loneliness

I only miss you all the time. It’s been so long, way way too long, and I feel so lonely without you. I keep hoping I’ll see you again sometime, that we will sit and talk and laugh like we used to when the world was still spinning.

I have tried to make sense of things since you’ve been gone. I tried to explain to myself why you are not here anymore. I tried to paint your face, but it’s always distorted. The colors are never right. The lines are always shivering. It’s never anything like you. I learned a lot, unlearned a lot, and moved on to end in the same spot again. Only this time, I can’t find you there anymore. I wouldn’t mind ending up here forever if I’m with you.

When it’s too hard on me, I write you letters. I write my heart out and it darkens the paper. I take one look at it and then toss it away. How can I send you something like this? I try again, I search for something to write – something to inspire your heart and make you smile again like the last time we met – but then all I have are demons swimming inside my head.

I used to write about tomorrow, now all I can write about is yesterday. You were my yesterday, you made it better, you made sense of the flow of dreams that crushed the rocks they threw at us. But when I try to write about tomorrow, it’s always lonely, and I hate the darkness because I keep thinking maybe you are there and I can’t see you – and that drives me crazy.

Sometimes I want to read to you. I mean, I know you won’t be listening, but I still want to do it all the same. The words may carry you to me, or me to you, and it would all be worth it. I never really know what to read you though. It’s all too purple, like that color a few days after you put a drop of ink into a bowl of water. It’s ugly, persistent and it isn’t going anywhere. I could read you the lies I write, I think you’ll like these at least. I think they will make you cry, then they’ll make you laugh, then they’ll make you cry again.

Once in a while, I go out walking and pretend I’m walking with you. The hard rough asphalt gives way to lush greens. I really just want to listen to you and your stories. I want to know what it’s like where you are now. I’d like to think you don’t think of me anymore. I don’t want you to even remember me, even though I can’t ever stop thinking about you.

Maybe when the flowers bloom, we’ll be together again. Maybe when the songs of the insects at night take on words we’ll meet again. Only we both know the flowers won’t bloom, and the insects don’t care about us, and all we have is sand bruising our skin now.

So for now, my friend, I sit back and talk to you again in the darkness, hoping maybe you are somewhere there. I talk to you about the weather and the shapes I see in the clouds. I would like to tell you stories, to tell you how I feel, but I can’t bring myself to do it, not after all you’ve done for me, and what I’ve done with it.

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