We were in love once.
A simple, young but dangerous kind of love.
We couldn’t always be together, but we found the time and made the effort. It wasn’t perfect, but it was beautiful. Because it was only you and me; in those moments together no one else mattered, nothing in the world could hurt.
When we couldn’t do it any more, I figured it would just be over, and we could each move on without a major drama. We promised to stay friends, and avoid awkwardness.
The first time we saw eachother after that, we had sex, again, when I said I never would.
I was not interested in anyone else. I couldn’t look at them without thinking, they aren’t as cute as you, as sweet, or funny, or tall, or nice. They aren’t as Good as you. So I avoided their company. I tried dating, and sex and fun with other people, and I didn’t enjoy them. I imagined you. I saw your face, and heard your laugh.
She came into your world, darkening the direction that I still lay in. She couldn’t make you laugh, or cry, or smile. She couldn’t make your heart race, or your head hurt. She made you hard, she made you horny, and she satisfied you. But you were disgusted? You refused to touch her without protection? You had no intention of making her anything more important than a flesh light. She was a toy, that you used, broke, and threw away.
Why then, are you so impartial about letting her go? Why, when we broke up did you hide my photos, put away my letters, and distance yourself; refusing communication or interactions. Why, when you told her that you weren’t playing any more, did you not get rid of the photos of you? You have pictures online of you lying together in the tent that you first betrayed me in. Her text messeges are still in your phone.
All you’re doing is letting her believe there is still the possibility of returning to what you were. Giving false hope of a future that you’ve promised me she will not involve. You tell me you want me, and fought to catch and keep me, but you won’t force her out; the way you forced me out.
I realize it might mean that you just aren’t affected by her presence. But she and I are affected by yours. As long as you appear where I can see you, lying beside her in that tent, I find it difficult to believe you don’t want to go back, and she will always expect you.
I pointed these things out to you, and you said it wasn’t important. As long as its not, I’m not.
I cannot look to our future until we let go of the past, and with flashing neon reminders like that, I doubt the Three of us ever will.