There is not much I can say at this point. You have made up your mind. And acceptance is much harder to find than I thought. I have muddled up the first four stages of grief. Silk pillowcases of denial, hot coals of anger – so much anger – 4 a.m. prayers to God, and then a four shots of vodka kind of depression. I don’t want to believe it. When the way you held me at night, pressed yourself into my spine, and whispered into the splitting ends of my hair – you knew I was in love with you.
All I need to hear sometimes is just an “I love you.” God, if you feel it, how I wish you would show it. Because maybe you do not understand how much and how hard and how deep I feel. I need to be kissed under sunshine and raindrops. Know skin upon skin even on nights when the stars hide. I cannot be the woman that always gives you an excuse. My always never worked out before anyway.
It’s okay that you don’t see yourself the way that I do. That you don’t see how your eyes are sprinkled with flecks of hazel, and you probably don’t realize that you bring your left hand up to your mouth every time you laugh. The same hands that hold me, that could probably build towers and castles and maybe you do, maybe you don’t understand that when your left is in my right, I know you were worth waiting for.