The Art of Missing You
In which a girl who should know better continues to ache.
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4.12.13 (Day 3, I think, of the REAL separation).

I cleaned the fish tank today. When I squealed with joy over the perfect landscape for new fish, I looked over my shoulder to see your smile encouraging me. No one was there but Sol, laying on his side, swishing his tail. I think of how you must be doing now. How much better you’re doing without me and, I don’t know, it makes this house feel empty.

All I can feel is your blaring absence like the blaring of your music when you used to drift away from me with a pencil. Tonight I feel you heavy on my heart and I think of all the reasons I stepped away. For myself. But Christ, when it feels like this all I want to do is do the same thing I did for these past two months: lay in bed, continue to cry, and wonder why the fuck something so good got so toxic and continue to wonder why the fuck I wasn’t able to fix it.

I don’t know.

I tried.

I love you, regardless of whether or not you believe that.

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