I Still Think About You

by Zindy S.D. Nielsen

You hardly even look at me anymore, and it kills me. I know I was the one who made the first move, but I wouldn't have said a damn thing if I new you'd react this way.

You realize it's almost exactly a year since our relationship began to die? God, this month. The whole damn month was one big emotional hailstorm. I didn't want to hurt you, and you didn't want to let go. That did it more than anything else, I think. Quel suprise.

Still, I wasn't the one who drove the final nail in the coffin. That was all you. You drew away, and drew away, and kept moving until we lost all contact. Why? Because you were hurt? You could've told me. We could've worked something out.

I'm angry at you for being closed off, and I'm angry at you for leaving me. And I miss you. And I love you. I love you so damn much it hurts, and I cry, and I wish I could talk to you again--for real, not this crap we suffer through now.

The thing that hurts the most is that this is what did it. It wasn't distance. It wasn't a change it social circles. It wasn't anything that should have wrecked us so bad. It makes me think--because I didn't let you feel me up? I get eight years of my life ripped away from me because I wouldn't put out? Because I was in the wrong relationship, and you were too damn selfish to respect that?

I automatically assume the worst. That's what I loved most about you though: You knew that, and so you never did anything that would prompt me to speculate. You were always brutally honest with me. God, you were amazing. One of the best things in my life.

Why did that change? I guess the transition was too much. That's all it is, though--a guess. You never told me anything. For seven months I felt like I was running around with a mannequin. "Run" would be the wrong word, though, come to think of it. You can't run when you're stuck on a pedestal.

I stare at your picture on my phone. I think about you every single day. I'm completely inappropriate, the worst kind of stalker, but I can't help myself. I want to to come back to me, and I want us to love each other like we used to. Do you remember?

I never told you, but I used to have nightmares. In my dreams, I'd be stuck with you in a room with you, and you were trying to make love to me. I felt so disgusted and forlorn that I'd hang myself with your tie. The dream came back so often that one day I had to wake up. I couldn't attribute it to an overactive, self-sabotaging subconscious anymore.

I wish, with all my heart, that I could've wanted you like you wanted me. I wish we could be perfect, and beautiful, and live happy, fulfilled lives, never taking our eyes off each other.

I wish I could say I'm sorry: I was an idiot, I was a jerk; I was selfish and insensitive; please forgive me, I love you so much.

I love you so fucking much. Why don't you love me?