I still think you’re beautiful. Forest fire. With eyes to match. I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, on screen or in person. How wonderfully magnetic you are. How I can’t help but fall for you. Couldn’t. It’s been a while now. I think perhaps you finally realised. Or just grew bored. Perhaps you thought I hadn’t got the message. That it was too subtle. But subtlety and you don’t mix. They never have. Where as I drifted in the wrong parts of myself too long to be brash enough for you to see me properly in amidst the wrecking light.
I put myself in you, inside my head. I wrote your name until it became mine. And I’m sorry I abused you. That I watched and fanned the edges of your flames but never fully let the fire consume me. But I’m also sorry that you burned. And there is skin on me that was only ever yours. I realised something today. This week. When I was running down black streets through piles of fallen leaves and tending gardens I’d forgotten about while I was crawling through the earth, that I waited because you were my lens. For understanding all the things in me that I won’t look in the eye as mine. I could look at you, and you were the reflection, of all the things I am still afraid to embrace in myself but could love unbounded in you.
I waited, because despite everything, I thought you might wait too. One day. That you might look over your shoulder at me and see something more than 1 of 100, 1000. But then, you were always looking over your shoulder. And I was neither keeping up nor letting go. Though how could anyone make pace with you? That’s why I love you. And that’s why I’m letting go now. Because every memory is laced with escapism that neither of us could commit to. To being sprawled in blurring perception that feels safest when you nod along.
And you will always be, always make the foundation of my favourite memories. But today, when you sent that en masse message, and had once again “forgotten” to reply… I realised just that.
That they are memories.
And I have plenty chaos of my own.