How we met was birthed from the age in which we live.  Our screens brought us together and it was through this screen that you left.  How strange for you to leave through the very portal that brought you here.

A comment on a status introduced us; a direct message acquainted us; a date enamored us.  We were wandering strangers whose paths along the cosmic playing field crossed irrevocable.  We were oxygen and flame; one fueled, one consumed.  The more one fueled the other, the more the other consumed.  

We were destined to burn out.

Why do we return to that which broke us?  Why does the mind turn toward that which hurts the most?

What I would have never imagined was the void left behind; the pure sonic vacuum created by your prolonged silence.  The silence still endures: I haven’t heard your voice in ages.  

You locked a part of yourself forever inside the chambers of my mind; left your footprint in my sand.  Saying I miss you does no due justice.  It is not up to me to miss you, yet I do it all the same.  These imprints of your soul will always color the grayer parts of me, yet I would rather keep my gray than ever chase the colors whose glory are lost without your luster.

I was simply a seasonal flavor, like spiced pumpkin or hot mint chocolate.  I hope my aftertaste is sweet.  Yours remains so bitter.  I cannot get the taste of you out of my mouth.

We told each other to not leave.  We asked the other to remain, to be willing to pick up the pieces when we fell.  (In our case, we were pushed, tripped).  We begged the other to stay.  Yet it was you who decided that maybe staying wasn’t worth it.  It’s understandable: when a storm comes, we evacuate.  I am sorry for my thunder and lightning.

What crushes the spirit most is the unknown.  I tell myself that perhaps if I knew the motive, the reason, the why behind the action, that maybe I’d find peace.  I cannot tell you which is better, knowing or not.  It doesn’t matter which side of the fence I stand on, my grass will always appear wilted; yours a tapestry of green.

Those closest to me claim that I will recover, that I will get better, that you’re missing out on greatness,  that I shall feast on the delicacy of my next love.

Their ignorance is forgivable: they simply wish me well again.  They want to see me rise from the ash heap of my history.  They do not see that recovery is not something I ever wanted to do; that ‘better’ is analogous to first being worse; that the only one missing out in this is me.

One of these days I might reflect on your quiet escape and feel wizened, like a lesson could be learned.  I know it’s an eventuality.  One of these days I may find solace in your silence.  Forgiveness comes with time, right?  One of these days I will wish you well.

But today is not that day.