I just liked the way you looked at me sometimes

I loved someone too hard once.  I’ve written about it a few times.  I used up a lot of words on her and I’ll probably use thousands more.  She’ll never leave the place I made for her in my mind.  Nostalgia is a wonderful mistress to indulge with.  She enjoys a bowl of ice cream at Friday midnight every once in a while.

I’ve always tried to squeeze the juice out of everything I love.  If its important to me then I won’t stop until there’s nothing left because if you care that much then why would you ever let go.  The problem with this is that sometimes the grip is too tight and overwhelming.  She’s the orange and she can’t breathe.  Sometimes the juice pours too fast and there’s nothing left.

She had the sweetest taste though.  When she was at my lips I was invigorated.  I can’t remember a time when I felt like this about any other person.  Never before did anyone have this affect on me.  My fingers sang for her.  My mind ran marathons.  All I needed was her stare.  The way she looked at me was the way everyone wishes someone would look at them.  A look of lust, power, greed, hunger, safety, awe, serenity and thanks.

There was depth in her eyes.  She had sadness in them too.  To me she was a beauty with brains that I spent hours entangled with some days.  Those days it was never enough, and the rest of the days ached to be more.

I’m grateful for her and the time we had.  The ending was the furthest thing that I could have wished.  A madness that overtook me that I’ll regret forever no matter how dimmed the light in her eyes for me was fading already.  It was most likely already faded and gone, I just made sure it would never spark back to life.

I am grateful for her though.  The way I can look back at this and feel the heart ache among the fondness.  I told her once that pain is as pure as love.  That if you feel a pain so strong it must be transcendent because only something that hurts so deeply could have, at one time, been extraordinary.

She didn’t agree though.  The pains she felt she never wanted to feel again.  They crushed her and made her eyes drop more into sadness.  This is why I don’t think we’ll ever return to anything resembling the way she used to look at me.  She only remembers the pain and I only remember the perfection.

 

 

Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for

fear I effuse unreturn’d love,

but now I think there is no unreturn’d love, the pay is

certain one way or another,

(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was

not returned,

Yet out of that I have written these songs.)

-walt whitman

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