There probably are many ways of looking at things, but nobody seems to understand mine.
It's been a week now, and it seems years, but it also seems hours. The pain is no different. Lie. It is more intense. How stupid of you to think that I left you because I didn't love you. I actually left you because I love(d) you. I know you are not ready for this, or that, and neither am I. I left you because I didn't want to be more hurt, to live in a lie and tell myself every day that the hugs you gave me were truthful. I didn't want to learn to think that your kisses couldn't have been sweeter, and that the bitterness was only a matter of time and outside problems.
The problem is that you never knew Love, and neither were prepared to accept it. But how absurd it is to observe that you only appreciate something when you lose it. You've lost me far many times to go back now, partly your fault, partly mine. What really really hurts, mostly and above all is all my stupidly pretty plans to share love in backyards, to spend hours on the beach, to kiss, to hug, to make you laugh, to run or to stop, to hug again, to kiss many more times, to scream, to cry together over the silly things in life, to get emotional about the true things in life, to enjoy, to watch, to not say anything for hours, to talk for hours, to drink, to eat, to cook, to dance, to learn, to smell millions of flowers, to fly a little bit, to imagine, to drive, to fall, to dream, to stay hypnotised for days, to watch the sunrise, and the sunset too, to draw, to go to the movies, to hold your hand, and for you to hold mine, to swim, to sing, to read and re-read, to argue and then make up, to make future plans just for the sake of it knowing that they won't come true, to say hello, and never say goodbye, to be, to feel, to sleep and wake up next to you, to travel, to miss me, and for me to miss you, to speak in french, to tell you "Je t'aime" and to understand the meaning, to whisper "Tu me manques", to memorize your pretty eyes, to explore you again and never get enough, to try to find you in the darkness of my room, to realize that you mean the world to me, to write, to feel lucky, to feel lonely, to make love at least 4 times a week, to fall asleep in each other's arms, to kiss too much in front of phill even when knowing that he feels awkward, to ride the bike, to send pictures, to take pictures, to hug again. To live, and to love.
But you know what they say, when you've said goodbye there is no return ticket.
But you know what they say, third time lucky. Should I choose to live or to love? Does it go together? Can I love but to stop living? or can I live while stop loving?
I don't even know why you're here, reading this, when we both know how much it hurts, and yet you cannot look at my eyes, and I cannot stand not looking at yours. Why do you like going through so much pain? Why did you choose to read this, even if you knew from the beginning that it was for you? Why didn't you just...
Don't. I don't need an aswer. I know them all, or should I say: "I don't know"...
I probably ask myself the same questions you do, but my heart tells me to forget, because suddenly I know that it wasn't love what you felt.
