There is so much I wanted to tell you. So much I still want to tell you­­­­, but I can’t now. Sometimes I pray to you, and to God, just in case. I don’t see the point any more. I’m not stupid; I know there’s no one on the other end listening. But sometimes I can’t help myself and I’m blinded by false hope. I can’t say any of it out loud anyway. It’s like if I actually said the words it would offer some kind of finality.

Doubt.

Why does anyone pray?

Why can’t you be here, in front of me, so I can tell you myself?

I know if you were still here, I wouldn’t need to say anything. I remember just being able to look at you, and you somehow saw passed all the wreckage, all the crap, right into me. You could look right into the center of me and understand everything.

You knew every part of me without even trying. Every crack, every crevice, every dark corner of my twisted self that I couldn’t even think about, but you just walked right into every one. You poked and prodded and you knew all of me backwards and forwards. I wish I knew that much about you.

Sometimes it was all I could do not to grab the lapels of your jacket and pull you toward me, making us one. Maybe if I held you long enough, or gripped you tight enough I could melt into you. I wished I could curl myself up against your warmth until I dissolved into your very being. Maybe that would protect me from everything. Maybe some of your light would leak out of you and into me. Maybe I just wanted a reason to touch you. Maybe it was all of those reasons. Maybe it was no reason at all.

I wish I could say your name. I try, but it’s like a poison that’s sits on the edge of my tongue. If I say it, if I let it pass into the air, I know it will kill me. So instead I swallow it back down with a shot of whiskey to save myself.

Thinking of you hurts. I wish I couldn’t feel anything.

I kept your coat. It still smells like you.

Sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly breathe.

I’ve thought about getting into the car and leaving. I’d just drive and drive and drive and never stop and somehow that’d fix everything. But I can’t. I have people to look out for. I have responsibilities. I have to live. That’s my job.

That’s always been my job.

But it was easier with you.

(Source: scribbles-and-scratches)