unrequited

There is a special medley of sadness that accompanies the thought of you. You are the melodic stretches of the cello among the chaos of the symphony, unexpected yet dynamic. Most days, saying your name is electricity on my tongue, but on the nights where this hopeless state makes me especially weary, your name is dull and gray, painful to even think of. On these nights I wish I could will myself to forget. In January, I thought I found the cure for you. For five days, I carefully avoided you, hoping to remedy my affliction with distance and feigned carelessness. I was angry, but only at the prison walls I had built high around myself. Remember when we raised our glasses to toast (and explain) our singleness? You changed your answer: “bachelor for life” to my answer: “high standards.” High standards is only half the story— the other half is you. The other half is the whole story. It is unrequited and unreciprocated and I am stuck between great pain and great joy, unable to let you go. I imagine myself as a child and you as a balloon tied to a string in my small hand. I, holding tight and not letting go, and you, always heading up and far, far away from where I want you to be. Sometimes I wonder if this is forever. Have I been sentenced to a life of holding on to someone always trying to get away? Will I always try to believe that it is enough?