Sometimes I lay awake at night, listen to sad music and slide over to your side of the bed; put my head on the pillow where you usually lay and I can hear your heartbeat, slow and steady. Only trouble is I have to silence my own in order to hear yours. I wonder if that’s how our love is. Me keeping my spirit quiet so that yours can shine bright enough. I ask myself if I am being vain wanting things to be about me or I’m acting out on my emotional claustrophobia but really maybe for once my vision is 20/20 and my judgement is anything but clouded. I sincerely wish I’d be making these realizations in hindsight but it’s in the here and now. Your text is in my notifications and truth is I don’t want to reply because somehow it ends up being about you and never me. Selfish? Maybe. But I don’t think a relationship should be the same as one being nothing but a human diary. Don’t know about you.
I stare at a picture of us trying to force back the memory of being crazy about you. I’m sorry. I just can’t. Maybe it never existed at all? Maybe my feelings got stuck in the first time I fell for you and just never recovered. I guess when you’ve idealized something enough it’s impossible for it to ever measure up. Unfortunately, that’s us.