You and I were supposed to be easy. I was leaving in ten days and had the world at my feet, and you were a 39-year-old, soon-to-be divorcee looking for someone to screw. We started out that night in a bar, and ended it in each other’s arms, knowing that all we could expect in the morning was awkward silence and a clumsy goodbye.
I didn’t expect your fingers to burn holes in my skin and that I would forget what it was like to not have them there. I didn’t realize that your body would mold to mine and that any moment spent without you would feel like the biggest piece of myself was missing. I didn’t know that I would smile so much more when you were around. I didn’t believe that I could forget, when I left, all that we had to laugh about.
Those ten days were some of the happiest I’ve had, my dear. You showed me parts of myself that I didn’t know existed. I learned more about you than I ever thought I could. We spent long nights followed by lazy mornings together, and were never quite able to get our fill of one another. I spent twenty-four years of my life in that town, and you were my hardest goodbye.
I miss you the most. I think of you often. Your smile and the way you made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. The thought of us not being together brings tears to my eyes, and I have to fight to hold them back. I want nothing more than to hold you and to be held by you. I want to rub your shoulders and bury my face in your chest while you kiss my head and remind me why I had to leave.
It hasn’t been long, and already I can feel you slipping away. I want to reach out and hold on to you and bring you here to me. I tell you I miss you – you agree, but life has other plans right now. Sometimes I feel that there would be nothing worse than never hearing from you again, but then I realize, at least I wouldn’t be waiting for answers that may never come.
What is worse, really – hating your fate or not knowing it?
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