Love

The death of love is a slow and painful process.  My heart runs back to you constantly, and if only you'd reach out to me for anything at all, I feel its death would be miraculously healed or anesthetized.  Chasing all the thoughts that run through me head, the logical notions that this parting is actually good for me and you, that you really are not in the place in your life to support and give me the love I need, want, deserve, the truth of our whole situation; none of these puts the death of love at peace, and it never will.

This is the second night that I've woken up at 5 am for no reason, unable to return to bed.  Without tears, without emotion seemingly, I think that I'm coming to accept that you may never see these words, you may never know how the death of our love is affecting us, and that there is no last message to you to give me closure; because the wound in my heart that spills out of my eyes when I least expect it is always going to leak.  The physical pain in my heart will continue to stab at my soul, and I'll accept that closure was when I decided that I'd love you no matter what; closure to my free will to love who I would, put onto you when you cannot handle it, cannot support it.

I noticed that I wrote how the death of our love is affecting "us".  Maybe it's symptomatic that "we" still exist in my mind that puts me at such discomfort constantly.  Hoping that you'll see what you are leaving behind is too special to just let it go, that "we" will be revived.  But in my deepest of deep dark gut feelings tells me I am lying to myself.  After a week, you have not reached out to me, but maybe it's because I told you I need time and space.  Maybe I should text you in a moment of weakness and desire to revive "us".

But no.  If you wanted you would have done so.  If you thought it was good for you or me, you would have done so.  As your name and phone number drop lower on my list every day, I wonder how long it will be before I can come to accept it wholly.  Should I send you this last email of how I will always love you, and that I hope we can still be friends?  I feel that I've said this to you before already, and that if you didn't get it then, then what good would reiterating it be?  Is it some shameful, desperate desire within me that puts this thought into my mind?  Should I leave you be, and let what is be?

Here, I am like you; I don't know.  The greyness of my thoughts are tainted by you.  I will always bear this experience with me, this deep love that knows no bounds, not even its own death.  As my friends hear my emotions replayed, they carry this love slowly to it's grave with me; we lay it down in the funereal earth, where a mound, a solid marker of it forever, is the first of who knows how many graves.  They're helping me figure out how to dig this grave, how to mark it gently, how to lay it to an uneasy peace.

We weep over it, the tears and grunts coming slowly and longingly, something so beautiful laid to rest, something too young to be put down forever so.  Buried deep inside me is this love, and it will always be there; you, my first grave, death of the first love.  May you forever be well and at peace, and with time, hopefully you will reach out to me someday of your own accord.

With you in love.