It took me a while to listen to music after you were gone – I could not bear the melodies, I could not stand the rhythm that danced so opposite to my own heart beat, I could not fathom words of joy or tunes of hope when I found myself barely inches from the floor dwelling in agonized sorrow.

It took me a while to smile – feigned grinning that barely stifled the tears and subsequent frowns that became my face. Jokes held no humor, merriment felt like a distant memory; my own life prior to this moment was a rope that thrashed in my stormy torment just out of reach. I was drowning, seeking breath between my pouring tears.

It took me a while to speak of you – even now I cannot bring myself to say your name or to even read it. When writing was my salvation, I could not bring myself to compose. I was afraid of feeling you in my soul, anxious of recognizing that you had power over me, timorous of hoping for a future where I am yours, nervous of longing for the impossible and allowing myself to be taken by the utter desperation that comes from foreseen heartbreak. When we were lovers, I tried to preserve myself by hurting you and myself only to realize I hurt my past present which further destroyed me.

It took me a while to admit that I loved you – when the past is so painful you yearn to relate it to destruction, you attempt to re-imagine it so that it generates anger. Sadly, even in my poignancy and mourning I was unable to ever be furious with you, I was unable to regret our story though I would rewrite plenty of it. I hankered to hate you, to imagine you as a tyrant, to distrust you and deform you in my dreams. It took me a while to know I loved you immensely and simultaneously did not for my actions were selfish and reflected a narcissistic type of love. Even still, I was drawn – it was no accident that were lovers – two egos that danced in a power ballad; I was small in your hands, your breath was candy and I was hooked onto your large, melancholic eyes.

It has taken time for me to think of you – even now I write of you with elusive sentiment and memories considering I still run from you in my dreams, I relive heartbreak there with no safety. I am still afraid, still cautious of the feelings you cause me, still nervous of remembering, still frightful of your name, still worried for myself and my imagination. But today I have been able to put you on paper with a perception that I am describing a character in a story. You are my tattoo but I cannot yet tell what kind of picture you are.


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