I remember us dancing
We never did actually
Probably because I didn’t know how
But I pictured it often
I liked to think you’d teach me
Stepping on your toes for the tenth time
I’ve always been so clumsy.
But your laugh made it okay
It wasn’t perfect
Despite what I used to think neither were we
I think I amused you
But you amazed me
And I wonder if, as you hold her
As I substitute sleep for bad poetry.
You miss me too
Thinking hurts. It hurts to think that she makes him laugh, and I wish I'd burned the letters.
I read one of them today, heard his voice jump awkwardly, saw him fidget and glance at the ground. I almost laughed until I remembered his words were no longer mine to have. And of the memories that no longer meant anything, a few surfaced for a moment before dwindling, stinging on their way back to where they came from.
I want it to stop, to have his existence wiped from my mind, but there's a part of me that craves him and the pain that comes with doing so.
I look at pictures sometimes. What used to be anger is now an addicting numbness. I'm unsure if it's progress. It gives way to the thought of them touching, the way we used to, and in tears I ask myself if he's happier. No, he can't be.
I convince myself I hate her. I pick at her flaws with nothing but frustration at my inability to move on.
I want to hate him, really I do. Emotionally incompetent, immature, impulsive...the things that hurt me but also the things I fell in love with. The way he'd mess with the hazard button and incessantly tease me and hold my hand tighter and tighter until I couldn't possibly be upset anymore and forgot we were just friends.
He was infectious. It’s left a bitter aftertaste. And though the void gapes it is only in the moments I don't think of him that I think I might be happy.
Photo by Rachael Lau