Fuck.

You're sorry.  I get it.  Don't you understand that?

It's not that I don't think you are sorry, it's rather that I don't think you are sorry enough.  In fact it's that I'm not sure you could ever be as sorry as I have decided that you should be.

And no, when I say decided I don't mean it was a choice.  I'm not actually implying  that I sat down and decided there was a specific amount of remorse you should feel, some  certain amount of your life you should change in order to appease me, or a particular  chain of events that must unfold like a video gamebefore the magical door to tomorrow would open and we could move on to the next level, or with the rest of our live.

And no, I don't wake up each morning with a well thought out list of ideas of ways to make you feel guilty, or to make you angry, or to make you miserable. (Though on the bad days, it's a perk, I admit.)  The truth is- I wake up just barley able to find my way out of the night and praying that for just one minute of the day I forget, and you forget, and we pretend.

Pretend what, you ask?  
(You don't, but I wish you would, so I could finally have a reason to say..)

Pretend that it was a year ago.
Pretend that I didn't know that you know what the taste of her lips feel like, the depth of her body..
Pretend that I didn't know that you know what life just almost without me is like, and that it turned out you didn't die, or stop breathing, and that the world went on, at least your world went on, and that there was someone else, and even if it ended- that it was possible that it began at all.

Pretend too that I didn't know what it was like now to sit at home and let you lie because being lied to was somehow better than being left-- and that it wasn't that I wanted to believe you, it was that I wanted you to love me, and I was afraid if I said "Don't do this" you would anyway.   So I just didn't say it, I just didn't say "Stay, don't go to her, whoever she is, just stay and pretend with me"...which I guess from the bathroom floor, hiding from what's left of my pride, drowning in tears, was all that was left of me.  


So when you ask 'when' (When will it be enough, when will it stop, when will it not be about everything, when will I forgive you, when...)  I want to tell you- (but I just can't) that on some days, like today,  I think the answer is "Not ever, at least not as long as I love you".

I just don't think it's possible to smell the back of your neck when you sleep, or feel the brush of your hand as you lead me in a room, or pick up dishes you leave in the bedroom, or clean your hair from the sink and not want to fall to my knees and just cry and hurt- because I don't know who you were to her...but you are everything to me.  And that.. that changed everything.  So when you say "You can't make this about everything"- you're wrong.  It IS about everything.  It's about you.  And me. And the unsettling reality that who I am hinges on the the assumption that you will wake up in the morning and that somewhere in your day you will love me.


The truth is  I don't know if I'll ever be who I was before, but the one thing I do know is that I'll never be her, and sometimes I just hate you for ever making me wish I was.