Unmentioned

Overcome with a desire to mend a severed connection, you refresh and sift through a dormant page in hopes of renewing now archived memories that have begun to collect dust. There is a void in my heart, a void in my being, where you abruptly left. I have failed to find a substitute—a filler of a sort—but my quest was redundant and only left me digging deeper into my own grave. I, instead, like you I assume, surrounded myself with better people and better things. To keep us in a better mood.

Am I the broken one? Or are you?

A lone unnamed message lays within the box. It was but a bout of sadness that triggered you to hit send. Impatience or not, genuine or not, words are but only words after all. You do not miss. You are only reflecting on a passing breeze of a memory.

It is quite unfortunate—and mildly entertaining—how one can grow to love another deeply, only to have it fall apart quickly and easily. I cannot fathom any words to describe what I feel or what I think because there is doubt; doubt in their validity. Do I only want what I no longer have? Or do I genuinely miss what is no longer there? Words clog up my throat, cloud up my mind, and paralyze my fingers.

When I think back to whenever, I can only smirk at how quick two people can obtain an entirely different personality—when they’re no longer focused on getting the other to like them.

It has been two months.
It should become easier as time progresses.

I should be returning back to normal soon.

He sat next to me and asked for my name.

“Samantha,” I say.
“Samantha,” he slowly repeats with a smile, wrapping his tongue around every syllable.

Hearing my name again from a voice other than the one I grew attached to, sent chills up my spine. Though he was not close, I felt the heat exude from his body and grace the surface of my skin. We talked, we laughed, and legs brushed up against one another—“accidentally.”

I imagined what it would be like to kiss him, to hold him, and to touch him; to make contact with another person’s skin again.

Relentless blows to the heart.

He offered to take me home—to whose, I didn’t have much care for at the time—but alas, I ended up alone in a cab ride home with numerous missed calls from my mother.

Sono da solo.

In bed

There are a multitude of nights in which I yearn for the touch of another; to have and to glide my fingertips across still slumbering skin, to stare into eyes that will not break away, and to drown in a bittersweet abysmal infatuation with one out of a countless amount of bodies in existence.

I realize soon enough that I desire what I no longer have and will relinquish attachment once it’s attained after a short period of time. I often find myself giving in to lust when the right opportunities present themselves to conceal a…pitifully lonely soul. In the past, waking up to an unfamiliar face and a quick departure into a cold and desolate trip home would seem foreign and unlikely.

Now in bed alone, I stare into the ceiling with a hollow head. I am haunted less, therefore I am at peace. This is temporary solace. I think so at least. Or feel so.

Eyelids heavy, I give in to sleep before I can dwell on what and who is no longer there.

Grow thicker skin, do not turn back, and wake up to another day.

Leaving

What I enjoy most when meeting someone new is the simple fact that we do not know one another; our pasts are unknown and overlooked. We are clean slates, new pages, and empty canvases waiting to be scrawled with both the good and bad, to have our eyes write silent messages on the other’s skin, and opportunities to discover and be rediscovered.

However, everyone is seemingly a friend of a friend or a friend of a lost love, someone will know a name, a face, or a part of their story—that story can be true or it can be warped.

It would be disheartening to know that the lips you kiss spoke ill of you before or the eyes you look into see you as the enemy—the villain—in a story once told.