To The Lover

 To the lover who wasn't quite yet a lover. To the man who chased me down, only to give me up once he had me. To the guy who kissed my temple when he thought I was asleep. To the boy who held me at night when I was scared.
 They say that absence makes the heart grow founder, but in our case, that was only a fairytale. After you left I looked for you in the novels I buried myself in. I tried to search for you through the movies we had watched together. I tried to find you in the sounds of songs I listened to late at night or in the car. I found you hidden beneath the lyrics of the songs, behind the simple looks of the men in the movies, and underneath the pages of Hemingway, Capote, and Shakespeare. I held on to those parts of you that were scattered through everything you had shared with me.
 That movie we watched together, 10 Things I Hate About You, spoke of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway, the book you had me read. Hemingway wrote that Brett spoke the words "Oh, Jake, we could have had such a damned good time together." to which he replied, "Yes. Isn't it pretty to think so?" which were the final words in that novel. The book which I bookmarked with a polaroid of you that is now hidden away from my sight.
 My brain subconsciously connected pieces of you to almost everything I saw, read, heard. Slowly it killed me. Even when distracting myself with other things not remotely related to you, you snuck in. Your face, your hands, your smile, your voice, your laugh, it all crept into my brain. It was like this fight, this war in my mind. Part of my brain was destroying your image, hiding you away from me because of the pain the thought of you caused. Another part was desperately holding on to the images of you that I think some are ingrained in my memory now. Desperately leading everything back to you in some messed up twisted way.
 Many nights were spent thinking of you, but not in the way you'd assume. I wondered if you were thinking of me. If you were listening to the record I got you. If you had to skip certain songs on the radio because it reminded you of me. Did you still have that polaroid of me on your dashboard? Or the one from your birthday by your lamp. What did you do with the roses you sent me that I had you take back? I wondered if they were sitting on your desk or if they were in the dumpster behind my apartment. Did you send back the birthday gift you perfectly picked out for me, or is it just hidden in your closet still? Mostly I wondered if you were hurting too. Were you okay, were you picking yourself apart anxiously. Or were you completely and utterly fine and had already moved on. But mostly I wondered and hoped you were doing well. I'll admit though, selfishly I had hoped you weren't for a moment or two.
 I remember crying over you and I don't mean a couple of tears and I'm blue. I'm talking about collapsing and screaming at the moon. I was so blue for weeks. As I was doing my best to hide you from my life and get rid of you, I hid parts of myself. I even lost parts of myself I'm still trying to get back. But then I found myself as I was letting go of you.
 I found myself while screaming along to lyrics of a band we both liked. I found myself while the bright red lights moved over all the people around me. I found myself as I dug my nails into the palm of my hand and cried. I found myself as I thought of you thinking the lyrics of this song. I found myself as tears started to spill down my face. I found myself as I closed my eyes to get me to stop crying. I found myself as I let you go in the moment.
 I'm still a bit messy, I'll admit that, but that's because this is the first heartbreak I've had that was voluntarily happened upon. But writing things all down in my journal with Audrey Hepburn plastered all over helps. I swear if you ever read that you'll think I've gone mad, truly insane, but it's helped me sort things out. I don't reread any of it after I write it, but I think that's for the best. So thank you for that little journal. Thank you for a lot of things. Though I believe I have gotten over you, I'm still quiet fond of you and wish you were still around.

 To the lover who wasn't quite a lover. I forgive you for the hurt you caused me, I forgive you for the things you did. I forgive you for the lies you told and the things you hid. To the not yet lover who is now just a friend or a stranger, if you ever want to try a good cup of coffee, I know where we can find that cinnamon one you like. Try it with creamer this time.

-written 04/25/17

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