Phantom Limbs
Spending 2 1/2 years with one person is no joke. I've shared practically every triumph and failure, every love and annoyances with her. There's been no part of me left unturned. And breaking things off with her was like willingly ripping a limb off.
I can't go 15 minutes without seeing something that reminds me of us. If I'm walking through Safeway and I see a new type of chips, I know what her reaction would be and how game or stubborn she would be to try it. If a song pops up on random, I know whether she'd ask me to keep it on, be ambivalent, or press the next button. Passing by strangers with questionable outfits, the conversations automatically play themselves out in my head. I watch shows and can see which moments would make her lightly chuckle or roll her eyes in annoyance.
Donkeys make her smile because of their ridiculous proportions.
Gangsta rap makes her anxious in the same way that her heavy rock does to me.
Seeing me dressed in all black makes her go,
"God damnit, Ryan."
I've never shared so much with anyone else in my life. I know that time heals all wounds, but are these truly wounds? Does time heal love too? I suppose it does or people would never move on.
Part of me wants to fast forward past all the sudden fits of depression, trips down memory lane, and bouts of manic crying; part of me wants to never leave this stage because if I do, what was it all for?
Also, I have pink eye. So... that sucks.
I can't go 15 minutes without seeing something that reminds me of us. If I'm walking through Safeway and I see a new type of chips, I know what her reaction would be and how game or stubborn she would be to try it. If a song pops up on random, I know whether she'd ask me to keep it on, be ambivalent, or press the next button. Passing by strangers with questionable outfits, the conversations automatically play themselves out in my head. I watch shows and can see which moments would make her lightly chuckle or roll her eyes in annoyance.
Donkeys make her smile because of their ridiculous proportions.
Gangsta rap makes her anxious in the same way that her heavy rock does to me.
Seeing me dressed in all black makes her go,
"God damnit, Ryan."
I've never shared so much with anyone else in my life. I know that time heals all wounds, but are these truly wounds? Does time heal love too? I suppose it does or people would never move on.
Part of me wants to fast forward past all the sudden fits of depression, trips down memory lane, and bouts of manic crying; part of me wants to never leave this stage because if I do, what was it all for?
Also, I have pink eye. So... that sucks.