For This I am Sorry.

I laid in his arms, absorbing the heat he radiated. I tried to ignore the constant nag of my own heart and tried to get lost in the beats of his. I wondered what he’d think, if he could read my thoughts, at that exact moment. I wondered if my thoughts would destroy him. I couldn’t tell him that it’ll never be him. That no matter how much his heart pumps his love for me into each and every vein of his, I will never truly be his. But he will occupy my time. I will fall asleep next to him, and I will wake next to him in hopes that one day that will be enough.

To explain the need for closeness, to feel another humans touch, to find comfort in anothers need for me, I could do effortlessly. However, if you were to ask me why I was never going to feel home in his arms, that I couldn’t fill the awful, lonely, ache deep inside me with him, well, I might find difficulty in it.

There’s no fairness in that. I hold the cards; and yet he the card castle, I the wind.

In him I find loneliness, I find complete torture. He will never be you.


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