It’s time to just admit it.
I’m not over you.
I’ve been wondering about you so much since Christmas, and it causes me a pang to hear you’re miserable.
I want to call you, but it’s been so long. Do you still have the same number? Would you want to hear from me? What would I say?
I miss you?
I care for you?
What would it achieve? The best and most unlikely hope is that you would respond in kind. The most likely outcome would be that you ignore me or tell me to get lost. The worst would be that you humour me for awhile.
Again I’ll try to forget.
Forget those days you’d sit up straight when I walked into the room. The interest in my dreams and the subtle tips.
Again, I’ll try to remember.
Those times you’d completely ignore me while in the presence of certain others. The day you refused an invitation out. The day you asked your colleague about etiquette for sharing lotto winnings if you won on the thank you gift ticket I gave you (yeah, she told me).
Whenever I think of you, I plead for strength.
To find your indifference so I can grow mine.
But you’re stuck in here, like a stuck grass seed in a knee graze. The skin grows over but infection boils up until the seed is washedor squeezed out. Where are my damn tweezers?
As deeply uncomfortable as it makes me, I’m still not over you.