This December I’m planning on letting you go, but it’s like the wind on a cold day—it sends a chill that makes my heart beat faster, the goosebumps and shivers part of that exhilaration.
Think of it like this—I take off on long runs and I still come back to the place we met, replaying memories like old film reels in my head. They’re already tinged with sepia, one year ago and it feels like forever.
Do you play them back, too? Do you ever miss the way we used to make each other laugh? Do you miss us?
Because lately all I do is think about where I was a year ago, meeting you for the first time and making you laugh, and talking so fast that we ran out of breath.
I miss you this December.
And I don’t want to miss you. Leaving has become less of a distant daydream and more of a reality, and the only certain thing now is that neither of us will be where we are now. The new year will separate us, finally sever that last thread linking us together. And I don’t want to hurt.
I don’t want to miss you like this. Like late night poetry, and the dizziness of a blow to the head whenever you walk by without a glance. I don’t want to be the girl who can’t let go of something she lost a long time ago, or begrudge you any happiness you might find.
I don’t want to miss you like a weight on my chest, like a physical thing resting behind my eyes, watching you as though from far away, watching you recede like my hometown in my rearview mirror.
This December I am letting you go, I tell myself. I cloak myself in ‘I don’t care,’ put up shields of nonchalance and make excuses about work like I can’t be bothered. This December I want to be better.
And maybe one day I will forget about you, like I forgot the first boy I fell in love with. Maybe one day it won’t hurt to see you, like claws raking across my chest. Maybe I’ll get to a place where I’m okay with you walking out of my life. Maybe I’ll be okay.
But what if I don’t want to let you go? What if the idea of forgetting you fills me with incredible remorse? What if I’m tired of breaking my own heart?
What if I’m tired of the pressure of plans and scraping my heart out, of replaying old memories and telling myself I can’t want you anymore?
What if I’m tired of just okay?
What if this December, I’m just yours?
— jasminawritespoetry, ‘December’