I hate so much being alone. I feel it more when there are no others around to laugh and joke and for just a moment take all my memories away. I smile at them; my eyes clear and wide, while they do all the things that young people do. I don't show them what it is to be me.
I sit in my room at night and dwell. It is not pleasant, but then nothing in my life is anymore. He took all the stars and sunshine with him when he left. All that remains is the simmering resentment and a love that has curdled like sour milk inside my breast.
I am not at all unpopular. Somehow all my defiance has earned me a room full of friends along with the bitterness of defeat. So when the emptiness gets to be to heavy I floo to this friend or that and smile until my cheeks ache from it. I cannot say what it is that I am missing but missing it I am.
How can I feel this way? It is not like what we had was all that enjoyable. Fights and sex and long nights of talking about nothing at all really shouldn't leave me with only tattered pieces of the girl I once was. He wasn't beautiful, not in the way that men are said to be. And he certainly wasn't at all charming. He was as cold and nasty as I am and yet somehow that only made the fire burn brighter.
Everyone who knew about us says that this is for the best, that the lies and illusions brought on by our affair were not worth what they cost me to maintain them. But then those who know me best are not numbered among my friends now and so I do not take the word of my new found friends to heart.
I have no defense. I have nothing I want to say. I have only the remnant of a love never meant to happen and the dreams of a girl fresh from the school room. It is no ones fault but my own that I am in such a state.
Sometimes I let myself fall asleep in the shirts he left in the closet. I wrap myself up in the expensive fabrics and indulge in the fantasy that everything is as it ought to be and that he will come sauntering into the room full of smug satisfaction at the way I am nestled in his scent.
In the closed confides of my flat I pull out the faded photographs taken of us. I trace his smiling face with a finger and watch as his aristo features are blurred by my tears. It is not so much the loss of him that eats at me; it is the loss of the girl I was with him.
He had a way of raising one eyebrow at me when he thought I was with drawling into myself. Whenever that brow would go up I would find myself doing things I never dreamed of.
His voice sent shivers down my spine and the steamy looks he gave me made my knees turn to jelly. Kissing him was like flying. His arms would wind themselves about me like vines; my body melding with his in ways that I know have ruined me for other men.
Sometimes I wish I could convince myself that he didn't make the right choice, that the events that followed the end of our relationship were not worth the loss of it. Then I remember the look in his eyes when he said goodbye and I throw all thoughts of a life together back in the trash where they belong.
For all that I love him I still have my pride. And even being alone isn't worth the loss of that.
I sit in my room at night and dwell. It is not pleasant, but then nothing in my life is anymore. He took all the stars and sunshine with him when he left. All that remains is the simmering resentment and a love that has curdled like sour milk inside my breast.
I am not at all unpopular. Somehow all my defiance has earned me a room full of friends along with the bitterness of defeat. So when the emptiness gets to be to heavy I floo to this friend or that and smile until my cheeks ache from it. I cannot say what it is that I am missing but missing it I am.
How can I feel this way? It is not like what we had was all that enjoyable. Fights and sex and long nights of talking about nothing at all really shouldn't leave me with only tattered pieces of the girl I once was. He wasn't beautiful, not in the way that men are said to be. And he certainly wasn't at all charming. He was as cold and nasty as I am and yet somehow that only made the fire burn brighter.
Everyone who knew about us says that this is for the best, that the lies and illusions brought on by our affair were not worth what they cost me to maintain them. But then those who know me best are not numbered among my friends now and so I do not take the word of my new found friends to heart.
I have no defense. I have nothing I want to say. I have only the remnant of a love never meant to happen and the dreams of a girl fresh from the school room. It is no ones fault but my own that I am in such a state.
Sometimes I let myself fall asleep in the shirts he left in the closet. I wrap myself up in the expensive fabrics and indulge in the fantasy that everything is as it ought to be and that he will come sauntering into the room full of smug satisfaction at the way I am nestled in his scent.
In the closed confides of my flat I pull out the faded photographs taken of us. I trace his smiling face with a finger and watch as his aristo features are blurred by my tears. It is not so much the loss of him that eats at me; it is the loss of the girl I was with him.
He had a way of raising one eyebrow at me when he thought I was with drawling into myself. Whenever that brow would go up I would find myself doing things I never dreamed of.
His voice sent shivers down my spine and the steamy looks he gave me made my knees turn to jelly. Kissing him was like flying. His arms would wind themselves about me like vines; my body melding with his in ways that I know have ruined me for other men.
Sometimes I wish I could convince myself that he didn't make the right choice, that the events that followed the end of our relationship were not worth the loss of it. Then I remember the look in his eyes when he said goodbye and I throw all thoughts of a life together back in the trash where they belong.
For all that I love him I still have my pride. And even being alone isn't worth the loss of that.