What Hurts the Most.

When I was with him I missed you. It’s ironic really. Because I was trying so hard to move forward and the very moment I did, I was the furthest from not loving you than I’ve ever been.

His hands on my skin were nice, it was all nice. But all I could think of was the way our bodies fit together. The way I would snuggle into you and you’d rest your hand on my hip. You know what I like and want, you’re familiar. Our fit was perfect, his was fine. I wished I could’ve fit with him. He was asking me if I was okay and kissing my neck and rubbing my shoulders. You were at a party getting drunk, forgetting about me, if you hadn’t already. Even before that, before that, months ago, your body was turned away from me and you ignored my heaved sighs and quiet tears, you were already slipping away from me.

What hurts the most is that I let you still hurt me, that after all this time I am still so destroyed by loosing you and by the reality that things will likely never be the same again. You’re gone. Even though you’re right here.


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