I will keep finding these things out.
It will keep happening, over and over again, in one way or another.
I’ll learn from her or her or him or them (you) that I’m really not “the one,” that you have moved on.
Not just “moved on,” but moved on.
I may have acted like I moved on first but I didn’t realize how much I hadn’t until I saw that photo, that face that I loved so much next to that other face that I don’t really know but you actually do love so much now.
Or at least you choose, now, to be front and center in your life, a place I never had. Or maybe I sort-of-kind-of-in-a-way-for-a-second did, but never like that.
Scrolling across that smiling photo of you and her late at night is an all-too-familiar slap in the face a slap that stings and echoes.
It didn’t matter. You didn’t matter. We didn’t matter.
Enough. Enough. Enough.
Mostly stings and then I get over it.
But if I actually felt (read: feel) something for you, it hurts in more than a superficial way. So that it’s more like a punch.
I still do feel something for you, right?
Sure. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ve lost the chance that I had to love you right.
I probably fucked it up, in fact, which is why this always stings the way it does. Or where I fucked up was in falling for you in the first place.
It hurts. Except that I can’t sit in that for too long. I can’t dwell in it because I’m one of those resiliant kinds, you know? The kind that projects strength, publicly, when I can/should.
But that thing is still there. I still care…a little too much.
This slap (punch) still happens often.
What hurts is that it’s not now. What hurts is that I never was your front and center. You probably learned things and I never got credit for what I had to offer and now it’s just over and I pretend that it doesn’t hurt.
But it does. With every experience I learn how to move on in a different (better?) way. But this doesn’t mean that it hurts less.
I’ll shove that shit aside (again) anyhow because this self pity doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I want to to be gracious and grateful; accepting, strong and compassionate. And because I’m too old to keep getting shoved aside.
Anhow, I got myself into this mess, didn’t I? I was (you were) far too self-absorbed to love you (me) well.
Then I somehow need(ed) to be alone and that was obvious. It still is. Maybe this alone-ness is not something that I even want. But somehow I need it. It is both glorious and heartbreaking and this is what I will accept right now because I have to.
I’m bigger than that and I still love you so much more that you will ever understand because this is where I’m at.
Some part of me feels like I’d still give anything to be your front and center, though. I don’t understand where that part is from because you never invited me. You never let me.
You never received me.
So I’ll just sit in the corner of the bar until closing and write until my fingertips bleed and try to carve out a new body and new loves and a new life. I’ll scrape at that. And maybe it becomes a work of art and maybe some scraps on the pavement but I’ll try again and still extend love over to you in my way because that’s what I do.
And some days I’ll be happy, some days sad. And no matter how much others tell me to move forward there will be days when my heart breaks for “us.” The days that we spent together and what we *could have* had and how maybe I fucked it up.
But then for all the times that I maybe fucked up I remember that we parted to leave new things open for each of ourselves.
Ultimately I/we did this out of love—not because we knew what (our) love was, but because that was just all there was to do.