I am a writer, a lover, a liar, a murderer, a chronic self-inserter.

Lately, I spend my days fantasizing about a story of us. Though you are not a character I wrote, nor did I create your tragedies or plan your future, you still seem fictitious.

Your touches feel real and not paper. Your words are not mirrors of mine, but a complicated entanglement of your life story–of devastation and loss but also of joy and humor.

The days we spend discussing the complexities of the human experience have blurred together. Now you have taken up enough space to

Always occupy my mind and I hate it.

Yet your laugh is one I will never forget. And the love that you share freely is something I will soon come to yearn for.

Look at the mess we made, my honey. Your mouth will be forever imprinted on my soul, while your lips form sweet nothings that I will take everywhere with me–held closely so that I may hear them when you are gone.

Over these next few weeks we will become closer and our separation uglier. And the

Realization of there not being a book about us, but a short chapter, is something I will not soon get over. And until I can, I will bookmark it and profess I hate you.

I am a writer, a lover, a liar, a murderer, a creator, a chronic-self inserter.

Have you thought of me often since you left me behind? Or did you leave the unfinished story of us with just me–the woman who cannot stop rereading it and fantasizing about a happy ending I know we’ll never get?

Your touches were real, but I cannot remember how they felt. Your words are as inconsistent as my own thoughts. They are full of distance and pain; longing and regret. It breaks my heart that you don’t call me to just say ‘hi’ anymore. 

The days we spent talking about the complexities of the human experience have blurred my reality, and you still take up too much space. You are

Always on my mind and I hate it.

Yet your laugh? I haven’t forgotten it. And the love you so freely shared with me is something I desperately yearn for. You have left a hole in my bruised heart, and I am terrified it-you–won’t ever go away.

Look at the mess I made, my almost. I knew better, but still allowed your mouth to forever imprint on my soul. The sweet nothings you once whispered to me under the roof of your car, I clutch as closely as the first time I heard them–listening to them when I feel you slipping farther and farther away.

Over these last few months, we have grown distant, and our separation has me broken all the same. And the

Realization that though you were just a chapter I have bookmarked, annotated, crumpled, and uncrumpled, thrown away and taken out of the trash, I must soon turn the page. Because I fear if I do not, I will write of you for eternity. So, until I can unfold the dogeared pages of us, I must profess I miss you.