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By xxx_yourstruly Date: 2005 Mar 06 Comment on this Work [[2005.03.06.17.01.29069]] |
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I haven't thought about you since November. The air was tepid and heavy with the weight from the year before, and I wrote about you in a journal with no cover. I wrote about waking up next to him every day even though I couldn't feel him the way I could feel you. Now I can feel him, and it hurts even more, so I try my best to forget you. I still find bits of you here and there, like when we talk once a month. You ask how I am, and I know how you have been. I read your blog and write thousands of comments, but never send them. I read hers too, and smile because every entry is about you, just like mine used to be. I know that I was no different from the rest, but why couldn't have I been just a little bit different? I remember trying my best to be orignal enough for you. Trying so hard, to get you to stay, so you wouldn't walk away from me for no reason. But you still did, all the time. You would leave me with just a word or two. I hated that, but I dealt with it because your eyes were blue like the seas of Posiden and you made me smile. I miss NYC, and I miss your voice, and your letters. But now I know they were never really addressed to me, just a combination of all the girls you can remember from your past. I think I knew this last year, too, but you wrote them so beautifully that I wanted to believe they were for me. I still love the city. I still write in my journals, and try to figure out what to sacrifice for this new love and what to keep for myself. You still have blue eyes, and the doors in them are the same, but the rooms they lead to have changed. I gave you a key once, it was tiny and yellow, and I have one just like it. You gave it away to a girl you trusted for 'safekeeping'. I think this was when I realized that we could never be. I just can't trust anyone who gives away the keys I give them. I used to know you, but now I realize I never really knew you at all. I know a part of you, but who you are is more than just a part of you that you hold inside. It's also the part you show people, and this is the part of you I don't like. You once wrote that you were a ghost. I think this is true, and I don't want to be haunted any longer. Goodbye, Ghost, I won't be writing to you anymore. |