Goodbye

I don’t have to look at your things, lying on my floor, forgotten, to miss you.

 I don’t have to smell your smell, misplaced fragments on my sheets, to miss you.

Your favorite song need not come on the radio; I need not hear something I know you would say.

 I feel you’re absence there, like a part of me that’s gone.

Like a missing finger, like I shaved my head, like something you don’t forget because it was there and now it’s not. It never goes away.

So I’m missing you, sometimes, and I don’t even like to admit it.
 I don’t know what you are to me, a lost distraught figment of my own imagination. The way you talk I sometimes think you’d rather be a part of my imagination.

I don’t know how I can miss you because I don’t know what was there; I don’t know if there was anything. I don’t know how to handle the lies and the secrets and the games and sadness, the never ending sadness.

I don’t know how to feel about the fact I’m missing you despite all the bullshit, despite all the misery. Emotions don’t make sense, but I never said they were supposed to.

I hate it when you want me and I've already moved on, I hate it when you can’t decide if you want to be friends like in the very beginning or if you want to leave me in the dust.

 I hate it when you look at me and I think that you might really love me, but I can’t tell. I hate it when it matters to me whether or not you do. These are my feelings, are you listening? Probably not. Because you’re gone.

And I miss you. I can’t make moments live forever, I can’t make you know that I love you but I’m not yours. I’m something that you either understand or you don’t, but my feelings are despite that the same.

But there’s something that I want you to know. I’m not writing this to you, or for you. This is about me, this is about every one I’ve loved, and can no longer call my love. My sugar, my jester, my dream, my anything.

This is my goodbye. This is my goodbye. Everyone wants to tell me
that I don’t give a damn, everyone

will say that I don’t care, and that it’s me who leaves, not them, but this is my testimony to the sentimental.



 I have not let go, I have not left it in the past just yet. I am still holding on to my demons, to my dreams, to my youth.

 The moments of innocence I shared with these, lovers littered along the path of my past, along with the fragments of my naivete  are not something I surrender easily.

 I want to capture the eternal moments, I want to own them in my heart, but in the end like butterflies they've scattered on the wind, and now I must let them go.

 I will be forgotten.      I will be remembered.  
 
 I will be one among many solitary nights.    I will be a poem.

        I will be faze.           I will be a safe haven.

 But as I am all of these, I am so only in the past of you, whom I loved. I am these, as you have been for me.

This is my with drawl from the guilty, this is my with drawl from regret. I am who I am, I have been who I would be and the future is yet to come. At any rate the past will not be my ball and chain, my ghost will not consume me.

To eternal love, the cursed words that ensure each separation with a kiss.