Amsterdam
I miss you.
I know you won't believe me. You always thought such sentiments were trite and insincere. And I always agreed.
I don't anymore. I haven't since I fell in love with you.
Another thing we never believed in, that we looked down on in disgust.
I suppose that's why this happened, isn't it: I changed, and you didn't. I don't know if you ever will. Hell, I highly doubt it. But I don't care.
Because that's what love is. I love you for what you are, not what you could be. And with that comes a sort of resignation - I know you'll never love me back. But it doesn't matter.
You don't have to. I would give anything for you to just stay, so we'll never be alone.
Alone. You feared it as much as I did, but we always feared those so called useless sentiments more. In that we were perfect for each other. I'm sorry I broke the rules. Because it made you walk away.
Which brings me to here, where I sit and wonder if maybe things you could forgive me, if maybe things could be different, if maybe you could change.
Exactly what I don't want. But would you really? Have I really changed? Other than a faith in a thing I used to scorn, I feel no different.
Did we ever really scorn them? Part of me suspects I always secretly believed. Did you? Do you even know? Or have our lies become so intricate that we've deceived even ourselves?
Will we ever make sense of any of it?
I know what you would say: don't hold your breath.
But you also told me not to fall in love.
I was never very good at following orders.
Besides, when I do, I can't feel it.
Then I become what we always thought we were, and you won't have to see me this way.
Then maybe you'll come back.