If Things Had Been Different

If things had been different, I wouldn’t be sitting alone in my apartment with naked, ringless fingers. Your pictures would be on my wall and your head would be on my shoulder, your fingers interlaced with mine. If things had been different, I would be able to listen to love songs without feeling a calloused sense of indifference overtop a stab of longing. If things had been different, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling the dull ache of tears behind my eyes.

If things had been different, it wouldn’t feel like an elbow in the stomach every time I see someone who looks like you.

I miss your hugs. I miss the nights we danced, whirling around on your arm, the way you held me during slow songs. I miss your kisses, the ones that felt like soft raindrops on the top of my head. I died a slow death the night I watched you give those kisses to someone else.

This is my catharsis. This is me, dealing with Issues Not Previously Dealt With. Maybe I can move on now. No more tears, no more spite, no more calling you a prick or a schmuck or the spawn of Satan.

The burning rage I harbor is only a manifestation of how much I truly love you, despite all the shit that’s happened between us. Deep down inside, I miss the way things were in the beginning. You and me. The prince and his princess. The rabbit and the moon. Y and X. Us.

God, this hurts. Now that I’ve brought this pain to the surface I can’t get it to go away. The night things ended between you and me, I ripped my heart out and burned it. It was of no further use to me.

Time heals all wounds, but it’s been over a year. The wounds aren’t fresh, but the scabs keep ripping and bleeding and they won’t stop. Fucking Christ. There’s a physical pain over my chest where my heart used to be. If things had been different, maybe my heart would still exist. Maybe I would still be alive.