I’ve learnt that the hardest thing for me to do is let someone go.
Three years and I’m still just as much in love with him now, as I was when I first met him. Three years, fighting to recover only to be reduced to that girl again, all passion and unflinching belief that we could overcome everything. Three years and it is my heartbeat that I hear when I press my ear to his chest.
We have both changed.
I am not as naïve anymore, and not so quick to let people in.
He has loved another, and grown wise enough to let her go, when he knew it was not enough.
And we learnt that, though nothing will change, it will never be enough. But try as we might, we will never be able to let go.
I know some of it is not wanting to say goodbye to the girl I was back then. So open and loving, so able to dive in head first without a second thought. So consumed with all she felt, no doubt or cynicism marring it.
And it is loneliness too. It is three years without someone to light that spark in me. Three years without someone making my blood burn in my veins. And once you know how that feels… It is hard to live without it.
But it is him as well.
He is more flawed than any man I know. Broken, with pieces that will never quite fit back together properly again. He is frustrating and impossible. Obsessive and on a pathway that will likely kill him.
But he burns brighter than anyone I have ever known. He is so alive, bringing the world into an almost painful intensity around him. I am drawn to his rawness, his ferocity for life and all it can bring. His blue eyes hold the world and he sees me in a way I’ve never been seen. He sees me.
And when he touches me… It is like he seeks to know every pore. It is gentle and deliberate. He does not rush. He has learnt my own body better than myself, and he adores every inch of it.
And when he leaves, he leaves me with words consuming me. Words that I must put down on paper, emotions too powerful within me to be left inside. He is my muse and my lover, and I find a trace of him in everything I write.
I wish he’d ask me to be his again, though both of us know what my answer has to be. I wish he would tell me that someday, somehow, we will find our way back to each other. And that I would wake every morning to his smile.
I wish that reassurance was still possible. That the knowledge it isn’t didn’t leave me in ruins, that it didn’t leave me barely able to breath, tears pouring down my face, gulping back sobs.
That it didn’t still break my heart.