I am so in love with you that there isn’t anything else.
A Farewell to Arms (Ernest Hemingway)
I want to tell you I miss
you with no subtext. No guilt,
no anger, no expectation
that you’ll fix it. I don’t want
you to feel bad or to tell
me it will get better. This
is where we are meant to be
right now – me apart from you,
my hands a little empty and
my heart a little sad.
I just miss you.
I wanted you to know.
I hope you miss me, though I could scarcely (even in the cause of vanity) wish you to miss me as much as I miss you, for that hurts too much, but what I do hope is that I’ve left some sort of a little blank which won’t be filled till I come back. I bear you a grudge for spoiling me for everybody’s else companionship, it is too bad.
Throughout life people will make you mad, disrespect you and treat you bad. Let God deal with the things they do, cause hate in your heart will consume you too.
How long they choose to love you will never be your decision.
I want to forget everything you told me. I want to wash away how uncertain you made me. How scared I was of losing you. How I lost you anyway. I don’t want to know how your hands feel or what makes you smile. I don’t want to see you in photos, familiar like a dream I had once or a book I never finished. I don’t want to speak about you in snippets or think about how I behaved. Or know that I still think about it. Or know that you’re not just a lamp or a blade of grass, indistinguishable from the rest.
And it was after months of silence that I realised we make better strangers than we ever did anything else.