Two years of wondering, waiting, watching, dreaming you, reading you, imagining you, but at the same time, it’s been two years of getting used to the fact that I will never have the opportunity to meet you in person. To meet you at the airport, run to you and hold you. Just hold you. To spend a few crazy days in each other’s company, walk casually in the city without a destination or a care in the world, just relaxing and enjoying our surroundings.
It’s been two years of wondering what it would be like to see you everyday, to have access to you the way your friends do, to talk to you. It’s been two years of imagining what it would be like to have your attention, and not just delude myself into thinking that I have it. I have imagined you in so many ways. I always wonder if you feel me thinking about you. I wonder if you know how many times I have imagined you walking alongside me or sitting across from me at a restaurant somewhere. I wonder if you know how many times I have written about you. I wonder if you knew how many times my heart cracked a little more when I saw how you dedicated poetry and pieces of writing to the other women.
Countless times I’ve imagined you coming to the realization that it’s me you really want, not the woman you’re vacationing with now, or the woman you were with until this past March, or the countless other females you most undoubtedly flirt with in real life. I imagine you giving up your old habits because you want to be with me, because you want to keep me with you. Foolish, I know.
However vivid my dreams are of you, I can’t forget how I got here in the first place. Sadly, the person you hurt the most is the one who truly loves you. I never got the chance to tell you so many things because you never wanted to hear me; never wanted to give me a chance. Ok, you were never really interested, that goes without saying. But I loved you for you. I wanted you, I wanted to take care of you regardless of social status, exclusive circle of friends, job, etc. I wanted the little boy crying in one of the pictures you posted of yourself as a child. I wanted to be so gentle with you. I wanted to teach you how to be gentle in return. I loved you at your darkest point. I loved you at your brightest spot. When your book was released, I cheered you on, but you never knew it.
Your words still sting. Your resentment toward me still stings. My love for you is still here. It’s been two years.