Why didn’t you love me?
That’s the question I ask myself in the middle of the night. My own company is enough, I swear. But I still remember everything.
I remember but I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to ask how you’re doing, if you’re happy.
Maybe I do want to know though. If I didn’t, what’s the point of this?
Sometimes I wonder if the truth has gotten lost in translation, if I was too busy deciphering silence to understand that it meant you didn’t want to talk.
I don’t know.
I’m getting used to this life, the one I’ve been breathing my way through, sometimes in gasps, sometimes mere exhales.
There is someone else and he’s so beautiful that I almost choke on my own nerves. I’m ready for it though, ready to be acquainted with what can very well be.
I want you to know that I will not try to deny how much I loved you. I will not betray our memories through any sort of diminishing. You were… an impossible dream, a poem I read in one of Neruda’s books, maybe two or three. And I wonder if you remember me as the girl who loved you too much or simply the girl who could love.
You were beautiful in a way I still don’t really understand. And when my nose is cleaved to the ground, I will always think of you and wish you the best.