The hardest part of missing is you is that moment when I want to text you. That moment when I almost text you. But remember. And stop myself.
Because I know you won’t text me back. There’s no way for us to talk anymore.
I dream about you sometimes. And you talk to me then. It always makes sense when I’m asleep. When I’m asleep, we communicate better than we ever have. The words are easy. For you, for me, for us.
But when I wake up, I can’t remember what we said. What little I do remember about our dream conversations makes no sense.
It reminds me of how we used to walk away from conversations thinking we’d come to an agreement — only to find out later on that we each had misunderstood what the other meant.
Anyway, you’re gone. But that doesn’t change the fact that I loved you. That I love you still and will always — for some factors of love. Yes, that love always felt one-sided, like I was chasing after you and that you couldn’t care less about me. And yes, I never felt like I had what it took to make you proud of me.
But I loved you with everything I had once upon a time.
And now I love you with much less. But the fact remains that I still love you anyway. And I have to remind myself not to text you. Not to send you a picture. Or something else that makes me think of you.
I find myself wondering if you feel the same way — wherever you are now. Do you have moments when you wish you could reach out to me? Do you have to stop yourself, too?
Do you meet me in your own dreams, where I, too, speak more sense than I ever did when we were together?