I'm not a novel in the series he could write about his life.
If he started to write it, I wouldn't even qualify as a chapter...
I'd be a page.
A page strewn with question marks. Instead of love; confusion.
We have been together for two years, and we're still not on the same page as me. I would go so far to say that we weren't even in the same library. Not for a lack of trying.
He loves me. He loves me not.
The constant battle for acceptance and wanting love, but letting go because he's unsure whether he's capable of giving such a love to you.
You would do anything for him. In fact you have. For these past two years, that is all you have ever done.
However, he did not return those actions. The feelings you received were that of a friend, not a lover. Nothing more than a pat of the back for those depressing days and a side hug for those moments your vision would blur because your tears were blocking your ability to see the road ahead of you.
You carried your relationship on your shoulders because you loved him; but he didn't love you. He said the words you longed to hear but they were empty. They floated away in the air like a helium balloon were to be attached to each word, which carried them away in front of your eyes, into the vast heavens above. No weight visible to his words of love and commitment.
You'd die for him. Without hesitation. If it meant for him to live and be alright, you would die for him.
For you; he would consider such an act. He wouldn't jump in front of a bullet, pull you out of the way from a speeding car. He would stand still and think it over. Contemplating his options amidst his confusion.
Now is no different to then, because he has always loved someone else. That's why he can never love me fully. He can never treat me the way he treated her. He could never love me for who I am.
To him, I am an escape and a burden. I am and never will be; her.
He looks at me and compares me to her. He was there for her when no one else was, he would take care of her.
He is there for me, when he wants to be. I take care of myself.
He says he would like a future with me but, there's only so much track a train has to follow before it's the end of the line.
Leaving him, would break me completely. He, however: would be fine. Completely fine.
What to do? Break my heart or wait a while longer and it breaks anyway?
Would he change? Will he change?
I honestly wouldn't know. I can read people as if they were open books but, this man is sometimes hard to read. As though the pages are smudged with ink, or in a long forgotten language nobody, not even himĀ speaks anymore.
Therefore, the page he writes about me that I grasp in my white knuckled fists reads, "????????" and those are the only sounds I need to hear, to know that I should let go.
He cannot mean the words I long to hear pass his lips. When he calls my name it is a bitter sweet symphony of anguish and love.
Love.
Something he will never understand with me, nor anyone but her.
The impossible love. She cannot return to this world, she was taken too young, many years ago and so was he. He walks, he talks, but he died with her - holding her hand.
It makes sense to me as to why it's always so cold when he holds mine.
For tomorrow, I pray that he will love me.
For now, and the rest of time, I know that he will not.
