It’s been 2-1/2 months.
Two and a half months of no longer talking to you. No longer seeing your face, your crooked smile, your sparkling dark brown eyes.
Two and a half months of your name not on the tip of my tongue, of thoughts of you no longer filling my brain, of the memory of your touch on my body.
But, really, we were done before that.
And, really, let’s be honest here, we’d not been close for a very long while. We’d been growing apart, your depression and so many other things eating into us, forcing us apart, like water, when frozen, will slowly work cracks into even the hardest of rocks. Conversations would loop, until we only had the same stock of two or three topics that you felt safe talking about. Intimacy waned, and then whithered, and then died, the sex turning into something we did, once in a while, and never much to anyone’s satisfaction. The pillow talk turning into naps that would leave me sleepless and restless after you left my bed. It was as if the very act of being with me exhausted you, the thought of putting on your date face for too long was too wearing, and you gave up.
It was wrong of me to put those problems aside, thinking that the other people in our lives had problems that took precedence, and maybe if I hadn’t done that, we could still, at least, be friends. But I didn’t realize how rotten things were getting, at the core of us, until the day I realized I was done.
You sat, and told me how I should act and feel, and how I should convince my husband to act and feel, and I realized that your ideals were no longer my ideals, and that your words were not those of the man I loved, but those of a stranger, and I knew, then, that I was done. And it hurt, terribly, awfully, to know that I would love you forever, and not be able to be near the person you had become.
So here it is, that portion of my heart that is still yours, that aches for your soft touch and to hear the deep rumble of your voice. The part that breaks a little every time I refer to us as in the past, a used-to-be, a memory.
The part, that for every minute of the last 2-1/2 months, has missed you, and wants you back, and knows that it can’t ever be.