There are days that go by where I don't think of you. See, I've managed to compartmentalize you like you did me, only I waited until you were long gone. Until you found it in yourself to think that the treatment you received was undeserved, without a word. I was supposed to know, and to notice, but you didn't let me in. Then my turning my back for a reprieve was the perfect opportunity for you to turn yours and run. Without a word.
And that was the bigger thing to do.
On the days I do think of you, I'm thankful for the days that I haven't and don't, because it hurts. A hurt I've apparently brought on myself, ironically, by pulling away when I was already too hurt to begin with. To catch my breath, heal wounds. Words never worked; never said anything of worth to you, except that I had feelings you were stirring but it was too much trouble for you to be concerned with, as attending to it might require some sacrifice. The kind that isn't flashy, doesn't award any stature; keeps quiet behind the scenes.
These days, when I think of you, there's an ache in my chest, right in my sternum. An ache like my heart wants to shimmy to the right and sink right into my stomach; call it quits on the whole thing. An ache that naively wants to mend everything, but wisely knows all too well that that wouldn't fix anything.
You go on, with me tucked away as a memory in a dust-gathering box; like a photograph of a self you'd rather not recollect. I guess it's an accurate depiction, the now, of how it's always been. I can find some twisted solace in that. That if it was that easy to not fight for, it should be easily let go; only ever to be a sieve.
This is what trudges through my mind when I do think of you, and now you know. Not that you should ever read this, or ever care to. Your potentially infinite gravitation of self will never lead you here. While I will occasionally wonder, but scarcely hope.
As you never liked my words.
