I’m a sucker for euphoria though, for those screenshot moments when you run out into the rain, or scream into a storm, or walk along the beach under moonlight and stay up to watch the sunrise. Or falling in love on warm summer nights and getting drunk enough to tell your friends how much you truly care about them. Those beautiful and unique explosions of everything that is life, the reminder that we all live in constant present - that everything is all far too short to rush.
Most of my days are sunlight and dancing, bold color and screaming joy, and I might miss you but I don’t really miss you. Not like I used to.
And I thought that meant the worst was over, that the storm had passed. The sun had finally broken through the clouds.
But getting over you is not an instant sunrise.
You have to burn out of me, little by little. Over dozens of dawns and scores of sunsets.
Nights still pass that are longer than the time I’ve spent not thinking about you; they drag on and on. The stars feel far away and they don’t feel like home–they feel mocking and cruel, like everything I’ve ever read about love and fate was a lie.
Like last week, I was okay and getting better all the time, but we were talking about someone else, and I said, “she’s pretty and good for him but they just belong together” and I wasn’t talking about us but then you looked at me and I was…
All it took was one sentence, and the skies darkened. I got swept up in the wind, as the storm clouds descended.
And then I was slamming my hands against the dash of my car again, knocked twenty steps back for five steps forward again. Again and again and again.
Just when I start to rebuild my heart, you come in like a fucking hurricane, and I’m right back where I started.