I still see him in strangers’ faces, In every black sedan that passes me by, windows up, a ghost behind the wheel. I see him in every corner of the road to his old apartment a place that isn’t mine anymore. I see him in old pictures of myself in the skin he used to touch, the lips he used to kiss. Now he's become a daily thought a lurking shadow behind the trees, dividing places into: those we visited and those we never got to. Perhaps there’s no getting over this. Perhaps love doesn’t move forward; it just sits heavy on the chest — like an anchor with no rope. Perhaps there’s no love after this, or at least none like ours. No more sweet or sour, just stale. Perhaps, after this, there will be no "more," only less.
Maybe we met because you were meant to teach me how to drive, or push me to finish school. Maybe we met because you were meant to hold me— when my days felt relentless. Maybe we met because you were meant for me. Or maybe, you were simply there, at the right time, in the right place. And maybe — if you hadn’t been there— my life would still march forward, unchanged. I’d still learn to drive, finish school, face the days without your arms around me. You just happened to be there. Maybe you weren’t that special after all. Maybe it was all me. It was all my love, my devotion, that I poured endlessly into you, building an illusion of a man so grand— a prince charming to pull me out of the water, when I was never drowning. Maybe it was all me. Or maybe it was all you. All your jokes that lift the weight off my heavy heart, all your smiles when you come home after work, all your tight hugs, and warm kisses. But mayb...
For a moment, I believed removing the dagger from my chest would stop the pain. Only the wound opened wider. No hands to stitch it, six long months, and I’m still bleeding. I don’t know how to forgive myself for how long I’ve let it consume me, I’ve let it feast on me until I could no longer tell where the pain ends and I begin. I killed you, burned your body, buried the remnants of your bones deep beneath the ground, and still, you remain. Dostoyevsky was right. Your worst sin is to destroy and betray yourself for nothing.
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