07 May 2011


Ah, it would be so easy to write a one sentence letter to you: Dear C, I miss you, your friend.

I ask myself why I should miss you and all I can say, despite everything, is that I simply just do. Truth be told, it bothers me more that I cannot say those words to you. Well, I could ... but you, like usual, would prefer to say nothing at all (not even a "fuck off"). I go home soon and I have not told anyone save for family. You would always be the first to know. You were always a part of home and I am still learning to understand that you are no longer a part of home.

I keep repeating one thing:
It is what it is ... and it is over.

How good would it feel to see your eyes one more time, to feel your arms around me, to make you smile. How happy I would be to hear you say that you miss me. I wish in circles, pointless circles, for something that will never be done or said ... and I have wished for such things when you still had affection for me.

I have learned that grieving for a loved one all alone is truly horrible and that every one deserves closure. You never gave me my closure.

I have learned to fantasize without your face ruining my desire but I still feel your finger running down my arm and I smile and I wince at the same time. So, instead, I fill my thoughts with pleasuring my colleague, office sex in supply rooms and stairwell, his long hair tangled in my fingers and his tongue explores between my thighs, consoling him during or after a hockey game. Swearing in French with his lips against mine as he aggressively pushes me against the wall.

Sometimes, it helps me forget you and how much of a mess I am.

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