In Which He Writes About Her

To make up for an utterly depressing week (in which I lost my iPod and saw how dismally low my grades were), I was all set to get rip-roaring-drunk at the Urbandub/Up Dharma Down gig last night. I was planning for the whole night to just be about me, my few remaining true friends, my beers, and the heavenly noise of Urbandub’s music.

And so my friends and I got ourselves the best seats in the house - the bar stools in front of the stage, right in front of the drums. I was happily on my way to drunken un-feelingness by the middle of Paramita’s set, when a mutual friend of ours told me: Dude, your ex is here.

And I saw you a couple of minutes later.

That, honestly, totally ruined my alcohol/music trip.

You see, I’ve been trying (in vain, obviously) since the start of the year to pretend that you didn’t exist. I’ve been doing everything to not think about you, to just try to forget about you, to even try to hate you, but I just can’t bring myself to. I simply can’t. You still occupy most of my waking thoughts, and after eight months I still dream of you once or twice a week (and yes, I know I shouldn’t have said that because it makes me look like an obsessed dork, but what the hell).

And then I saw you last night, for the first time in two months, and for only the tenth or twelfth time since we broke up. That officially ruined the rest of my week. Don’t get me wrong – my heart leapt when I saw you – but it’s just that I become really depressed when I see you, and I don’t quite exactly know why.

Maybe it’s because I just don’t how to act around you anymore. I mean, if I were the old me, I’d run up to you and flirt with you like a complete ass until it was time for you to leave; then I’d call you up at home and flirt with you even more. But yes, I know, this was years ago, back before we had gotten together, before we had the time of our lives (or at least that’s what I’d like to think; but then again that only probably applies to me), and before we then had a break-up worthy of making into a movie; things are different now, I’m aware of that much too clearly. As much as I wanted to talk to you last night – hell, even just to say hi – I can’t, because I’m scared. I’m scared of once again appearing like a complete jerk in front of you; I’m scared of actually becoming the crazy, maniacal guy you perceive me to be. I’m afraid of saying and doing the wrong things, of appearing like a complete asshole once again and lowering your perception of me more, and of making you hate me even more. All in all, I guess I’m scared that I can’t be myself around you anymore.

But honestly, all I want to be is the guy you fell in love with again. I want you to see me for the real me, the guy who I’m struggling to be again - I want to be the one who you’d miss; I want to be the one who you’d tell all your crazy, weird stories to on the phone; I want to be there for you, to listen to you, to protect you, and to kiss you good night. But you told me, so many months ago, that you’re happier without me, and well – I can’t beat that. And as much as I want to be friends with you because maybe that way I can make you fall for me again, or at the very least be able to make you smile – we can’t, because as you said, we were never just friends anyway.

And yes, I know, you tell me all the time that I should just accept things as they are and move on. But the fact is, I've already accepted what has happened months ago. It's the dealing-with-it part that I have problems with.

And so I just sat there, ordered another beer, lit another cigarette, and I remembered you. And yes, I was the one who kept bugging Urbandub to play Quiet Poetic, and I was the one who screamed the loudest when they finally played it.

That one was for you. I hope you were still there to hear it. And I hope, that even for just a few moments, you found yourself thinking of me - ten or so meters away - thinking of you. And well, if you didn’t, because you seem to have forgotten all of two years, I’ll do your share of remembering for you.

And lastly, because I promised myself when I put my blog back up that I’d do my best not to write about you again – screw that, just this once – I’ll make the most of this entry.

Here’s something you’ve read before; as you know, it’s an entry I left unpublished in my old blog:

IN WHICH HE MISSES HER

i miss her.

i miss the long walks we used to take in her village, and how we'd just talk and laugh and talk and laugh.

i miss blowing and making fart sounds on her tummy.

i miss the way she held my hand - like it belonged nowhere else but there - and the way she scratched the underneath of my palm.

i miss her, and the way she found silly things to be fascinating, like bugs she found in her dad's salad, or the how she'd chase stupid kittens around when we came across them while walking.

i miss the way she scratched the hair on my tummy.

i miss just staring at her - i could've done that for days at a time, if she had let me. that's how beautiful she was. hers was a beauty that was unlike anything i'd ever seen or experienced. it was far beyond being just pretty, lightyears beyond, even. it was the type of beauty that made you feel lonely - the type that created that deep gnawing feeling just where your ribs met your tummy, the type that made you think of sunsets, and of the sea, and of the happy moments of your childhood. it made you lonely, because you know you had to stop looking at her at some point.

i miss staring into her eyes, and the naughty twinkle they had in them, like she knew something that you didn't.

i miss her nose, and how soft it was when she let me play with it, and i miss giving her eskimo kisses.

i miss her smile, and how the mere sight of it made my heart skip a beat (it always did, up to the last time that i saw her, and everytime i'm lucky enough to glimpse it,) and the way it never failed to make feel better after a sucky day.

i miss her lips, and the way they're always so soft and yummy when she puts on her lip balm.

but mostly i just miss her, and the long talks we used to have about our dreams, our futures, and ourselves. i miss our meaningful silences, and the times she’d let me lie on her lap, there on our bench in the park, staring at the stars. i miss going home to her, and the thought of going home to her.

it's all over now, and it will never happen again, but the simple fact remains:

i miss her. god, i miss her.