We had a lot going for us. We’d found the secret glue that held our lives together. In a tranquil place, where the noise did not intrude, our world was so very complete.
The thing I remember most about her was the way she kissed me, how warm her lips felt as they grazed my cheek and the way I could always feel her smile as her mouth explored mine – how it meant something. How real it was.
And that is the pain of being so infatuated with somebody so unattainable, they take that biro they always seemed to carry around with them and the beautiful words they wrote and they scribble over every single memory you have. You can’t remember anything of the little beauty the world has to offer, because all you remember is them; and in comparison, the world’s beauty is nothing when held up in competition against theirs.
What separates humans from animals is not the gift of vocabulary like most of us seem to think, it is our inability to live in the present. We are always thinking of the past or burdened with the anxiety of the future – and I, well I am always thinking of her. And sometimes I wish that I’d never met her because then maybe then I could sleep at night and I wouldn’t have to live with myself knowing that somebody like that exists. But only sometimes, the rest of the time my heart is heavy with the empty hum where her name used to be, and my body aches to relive the sensations her hands gave to it so delicately.
I miss everything about her. I miss the fragility of her frame and the strength of her soul. I miss her opinions and the birth mark on her spine and the way she passed a rule of the necessity of sleeping naked when it was warm outside, because she told me waking up with my skin doused in a pool of sunlight would help me to feel better about my body.
But she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand I’d give her everything I had and dedicate every piece of love in my body just to have the courage to tell her that I am weak and she is strong. That no matter how much she made me rise that I was still sinking and I couldn’t breathe when she said my name, because she made it sound beautiful, and beautiful words aren’t meant for people like me. She didn’t understand that all I could do was take her in as she came to me in a blur of vulnerability and passion and beauty, and that I’d sit awake, alone in the hours before the sunrise trying to figure her out – that she was too fair for the blemishes in my understanding and I am selfish and miserable and trapped.
She didn’t understand I could never love myself the way I was consumed with her, and she said not knowing how to love myself was not knowing how to love at all.
Occasionally I try with all the will I have not to think of her, because my mind aches with regret and all the things I was too scared to say every time I do. But every time I don’t it’s like somebody has plucked the colour from my brain and whitewashed the walls into an arid pattern of nothingness and nothingness and nothingness.
But I will never tire of this; she is rooted too deeply inside of me and every day I hurt when she claws at my skin from the inside out and drains me of everything I have. But I never want her to uproot herself from my thoughts or untangle her favourite books from the unplugged wires in my brain.
The infatuation is unbearable but it has been a privilege to feel my ugly name roll off her beautiful tongue and onto mine, and somehow the taste found a way to stay although she didn’t.
— 'Her', it's been a long time since i've written anything remotely long and this is so very painfully cliched but whatever (via looozerr)