This isn’t about you.

It’s not about the dizzying rush of adrenaline that flooded my head before I walked up to you and asked for the first date. You smiled at me, and my breath played through the unfamiliar act of catching somewhere in the middle of my throat.

It’s not about the way the line in the Nirvana cover — I’m lucky to have met you — sends my mind reeling back to that night on the couch, carefully plucking at guitar strings, breaking through the drowsy stillness of night. Our fingers somehow worked something out together, creating a sound that was some of the best music I’ve ever listened to.

Nor the way walking down an empty sidewalk incites my feet to wander into the middle of the street, tracing your steps as you paved a new path of absolute happiness in solitude; the kind of satisfaction I’ve only ever strived for is essentially a part of your being.

This isn’t about the warm nook between your feet that mine fit perfectly inside of. This isn’t about the feel of your hand, gently bringing my body close to yours. This isn’t about how your lips felt against mine — precious, like the last patch of sunlight in the springtime evening, shockingly golden hot compared to the surrounding shadows beginning to engulf the world.

This isn’t about you.

It’s about the reckless hope I’ve allotted to you, letting you take up mental real estate. It’s about the confidence I have in the idea that I’ll never see you again; the resulting poignancy of your absence. It’s about the reality of wanting something I can’t have.

But — this isn’t about you.

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