Incomplete

An old wound has ruptured anew; festering uncontrollably.

—

This is post-high-school-grad happening all over again, except a million times worse.
You came back last time. I wasn’t in too deep last time. It was all too simple last time.

You can’t just do that. You can’t just move across the country a week after I finally revive the courage to lay my pride to rest; to make physical contact with you; to exchange empty words. And all to show you that I still care.

Please don’t tell me that I’m beautiful. Or that you made the lousy mistake of choosing her over me all those years ago. I already know that — I’ve ached. Don’t tell me that you wanted us to be together “so bad.” Especially not when you’re 2,500 miles away from me. Just don’t. Because it hurts and much more, it’s selfish. Words are just words, they keep telling me. But can you blame me for wanting to seek truth in those probable sweet nothings? You’re a coward. Your feelings, formulated in the right setting, would have moved mountains for us.

I hate the way you make me feel. This grief is an endlessly piercing nuisance; I am broken, confused, and so unbearably incomplete without you. I don’t want to exist in a world where we sluggishly become distant memories. foggy flashbacks. insignificant yesterdays.

Times are different now. You’re not coming back — except for the occasional holiday — and we’ll slowly forget about each other. Or at the very least pretend to.

We’ve always been good at that anyway.