September 7, 2013
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Wistful. It's a pretty word, isn't it?
It means to be sad, regretful. Longing for something you lost. I think perhaps there's a happy note to its definition, in remembering all of the joy, but for now all that happy is swept up in something that tastes a lot like warm salt water to me.
I am wistful.
The person I needed is gone. So I sit here in my room, alone, staring at all of it. The pictures on my wall, the locket I made to carry him with me always, the dress on the floor that happens to be what I had on the day he asked me out, the boots be loved to see me wear. It is a nest of something light and beautiful gone wrong. It litters my floor like shards of sharp brittle glass that can cut with a glance
I'm so tired of people lying to me.
I'm weary and broken again.
Because isn't it funny that the person who tells us they'll always be there leaves you the most forlorn. The most broken, messed up, empty reflection you ever saw. All reflected on those slivers of glass.
Perhaps it's my own fault. My innocence and naivete. I believed the smoke and mirrors act that was our love and let you bewitch me. I let you sink me.
Was it easy? Breaking up with your first kiss, your first love, your first girl? Did you feel pain, cry a little? Or did you simply do it and move on?
Because my pillows are streaked with black, for the times I stumbled into bed, makeup still on, and cried a river for you.
Oh, wait.
I forgot...You don't cry, do you?
Well maybe you wrote a poem, or a letter. Maybe you bottled it up inside and had to let it out eventually. An email you never sent, perhaps?
Because my journals are now riddled with your name, my feelings and yours intertwined in an intricate dance on the paper, stroked there in ink and graphite, for all the times I couldn't get a hold of you and needed to release the cacophony inside of me.
Oh, wait.
I forgot...You don't write, or attempt romance, do you?
Probably you kept up with me. Watched my pictures, my statuses, read the emails I sent, because you missed me. When I wasn't there and you wanted to keep up.
Because I stood on the sidelines and cheered every place, every word you told me. I woke up at three in the morning for the chance of a ten minute conversation, before the thought of you sent me back to bed smiling and love-struck. I prayed for God to keep you safe, and that you'd be home in my arms safe once again soon.
Oh, wait.
I forgot...You don't really care about me, do you?
So for now I hold these fragments of glittering glass, tighter and tighter each day, for I'm afraid of forgetting. I'm afraid, and yet somehow it cuts deeper and deeper, begging to be relinquished.
Wistful. It's a gorgeous word. Almost as pretty as adieu.

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