subject line: i hate this, pt 2


the shadow of our mountain

Here’s the thing - I’m still waiting for you to walk in through the door.

I’m still swimming in the lake at 2am, watching the stars and wondering where you are.

I’m still driving the roads we drove, listening to the songs we sung, telling the jokes we told.

The unrecognizable blobs of chaos became shapes, and you weren’t here to watch me kick ass when all hope was lost.
I became mighty and powerful and God-sent to the point of bragging how I saved the day, and you weren’t here to high five me.

Your mom still texts sometimes, always with another “how to remember you” scheme. This time it’s a painting to sell to raise money for the scholarship with your name on it. She keeps asking for my help and I keep saying I’ll try, but always dodging because if I go in, I know I’ll never get out.

She wants to keep you alive forever - I’d just like to finally accept that you’re dead.

Did you hear me laughing as I danced up the street the other night? Right down the middle line, laughing and singing and finally believing that who I am is what I want. Did my voice ricochet up to whatever star you’re hanging on, and did you see me hope for love from a man who can’t make me any promises, just like you couldn’t or wouldn’t or didn’t or shouldn’t.

Somedays, I’m thankful that you didn’t love me - it makes the grief a little easier.
Most days, I’m angry that you didn’t love me - because I’m still loving you.

I feel like I’m in a bad loop of memories and repeated mistakes.
And each time I realize it, I see that it’s because I’m still looking for you.

And I just hate that.