Total Pageviews

Follow by Email

Saturday, July 14, 2012

I'm sorry.

It's not that I miss you.

But when the rain falls down, I recall the drives that we took together and as I shiver I think of the warmth that was you. When I'm walking sometimes, I look back for I feel like I just passed you for your aroma in my senses is still so fresh, that whiff of you still lingers. At times, most times, I imagine how certain songs that you're oblivious to would sound if sung in your imperfectly perfect voice. Rarely, I open my wardrobe and something that was once owned by you springs up and I just hold it in my arms, imagining it's not the feel of cloth, but your body against mine and even though it no longer has any remains of you on it, the fact that it once graced your skin is enough. Occasionally, I close my eyes and the dream that is you is so real that I hate myself for waking up and reprimand myself mentally, enough to acquire insomniac traits for a bit. Every fourteenth, at midnight, you're the first person to cross my mind, always. Once in a while, when I look at them I'm envious for nothing but the fact that life never gave us that shot, that chance - to be real, to be US.

I know this is insignificant. I know I'm not supposed to be writing this. I know you don't have the time for my incessant whining anymore. But what do I do when I miss your lips. The first to have ever kissed my forehead. Those eyes. That voice. I remember you in intricate detail, curse my impeccable memory but I do. I remember how your hugs felt, how my face inevitably lit up when I saw you or your digits after a sucky day and how your heart always skipped a beat and pounded that much faster in your chest when I was close. Shhh is what I said then, to your heart. Shhh is what I'm saying now, to mine.

It's not that I miss you. It's just that I miss you a fucking lot. 

No comments:

Post a Comment