I miss you in this photograph.
This may not be the the best thing I've ever written, but it did come from an honest place, and maybe, just maybe, someone can relate.
Sometimes, just very rarely, I have moments in which I miss you, in which doubts run through my mind like so many children running through a park, trampling all the flowers underfoot. I second guess myself in those moments. They are rare, but they make my heart ache and my stomach lurch, and they are devastating. I rarely miss you or your touch or your hands or the way you always smelled like laundry, but in that photograph, I miss you. I miss all those things, but then I remember that I can’t have them, that I gave them away. I remember that they could belong to anyone now. But also, I remember that there were things about you that I did not like, like the way your armpits smelled kind of funny sometimes and the way you looked down when you walked, and the sadness in your eyes that never quit... Those things I do not miss, and they make me feel better that I do not have you now.
Do you really want to know the truth? Mostly, I never liked the way that you loved me. It was too much, too demanding, too obvious, too all-encompassing. We all like to be shown affection, but when it becomes too much, it doesn’t excite, it doesn’t spawn feelings, and it’s not fun anymore. It’s not novel. It dulls the senses. But that love is nowhere to be seen in this photograph; in this photograph there is just you, running your hand through your hair as if you don’t care at all, and I like the thought that maybe you were capable of not caring, and it makes me miss you, more than I should, and more than I’d like to admit. I do not at all care for the reminder of what we were, and what I had. But I know that you miss me more, a thousand times more, a million times more, and that you probably think of my kisses or the smell of my hair or the green in my eyes before you go to sleep at night, and the thought of that makes me sicker still, that you are there, hours away, thinking of me, and I am here, living my new life, and hardly ever thinking of you.