I want to live. I want to go on. I am desperately trying to remember as I try to forget. There is so much I want to do. But yet I don’t want to do anything. I want to go somewhere new. I want to do what I love.
But I can’t. I can see myself walking in and losing it. Your presence would be stronger than ever yet the void of it screaming it’s relevance. I wouldn’t be able to turn to you and have you catch me. I wouldn’t be able to fall with reason as I fell into you.
It would be a ghost feeling, feeling pain in a limb that is no longer there. I wear layers of you as though it is freezing and I have never felt warmth. My mind runs over places you were and I am forgetting.
I know the language. It is one you taught me. Every word of that I know because you were the first I heard speak it. I cannot even imagine trying to listen to someone else speak to me in that fashion. I can’t fathom the pain I would feel, acting for someone else everything you etched into my being.
I want to exorcise the part of me that knows this. That feels this. Yet I can’t, because you can’t forget a language you already know. You can’t cast out a part of your being. I won’t ever be able to. It will fade with time, yes, but I won’t ever forget where my roots came from.
I can’t pretend it didn’t matter, or it wasn’t significant. Because it was. And it still is. It flashes in my mind as some feeling you can’t shake. My being faded into yours and you will always own a huge piece of my essence.
I want to go on as a form of a new chapter, a way of proving I wasn’t just there for you. But my love for the art and my love for you blended into one, and I can no longer tell the difference. You and the art became the same. My love became one.
This is the war inside my core. It’s taken it’s tool on me.
I long to move forward but yet I am still stuck in square one. I’m trying to heal but the wounds keep being reopened.
You have laid your hand in every single wound, for you put them there yourself.