Sometimes I wish I knew what you were doing. My mind traces back to us and I picture you sitting in your apartment and looking around the freshly painted walls, realizing one of your dreams have come true. You’re happy, you have most of what other men desire, and yet, there’s still a vacant longing inside of you that you don’t know how to fill.
I always tried to pour myself into you to bridge any gaps or holes; I wanted to meet you there, where all your hunger and thirst for what you didn’t understand was quenched. I always hoped you would rise to the person I know you wanted to be. I waited a long time for that man to greet me with eyes open and aware; to feel the arms of conscious recognition wrapped like a warm blanket around me.
I caught glimpses of this version of us. Sunday afternoons spent lazily on the couch, our bodies entwined, hands united, laughter ascending from our bellies, eyes meeting the other’s just long enough to express sincere gratitude for the life we shared. Mornings where we held each other a little longer than normal. Nights where your chest was my pillow and your voice, a lighthouse, directing me home.
Maybe one day I will come to meet the man who can always be this way. Maybe at some point we will discover in each other what once kept us close.
But you’re in a new city with new people. You’ll be catching the eyes of women all around you, and one of them you’ll let inside. She won’t be meeting the man I knew though. She may never meet that man, for he has been outgrown, worn, torn down, and replaced.
The man she’ll be meeting, the person she’ll fall in love with, is the man you couldn’t be for me, but because of me, is who you’ll become.
I can’t picture it. I don’t want to. But I hope when that day comes you’re happy and that she makes you happy.
I needed you to be someone you weren’t willing to be, and I wonder if me leaving is what you needed.
To find yourself.
To become yourself.
To love yourself.