(the incomplete version)

Years have passed since we ended our relationship. This shouldn’t matter now, or at least this shouldn’t matter much. But it does. Dammit it does. It still does.

I let go of you because I thought I was still in love with someone else, and I thought it would be unfair to both of us, to you more importantly, if we held on. You didn’t want to end things, but I was possesed by a martyr complex, that I had to insist we part because it would be for the better. Little did I know that it was one of those stupidity guised as martyrdom moments.

It didn’t work out between the bastard and I. I wanted to run back to you, but I resisted. I didn’t want you to think that I’d just use you. Considering how we started, I would have not blamed you for drawing that conslucion. Months passed and I wanted to reach out to you.  Take whatever you could give me– undeserved love, uneasy friendship, lukewarm familiarity… anything.

You told me yesterday that you were never mad at me and that maybe it was a good thing I didn’t talk to you because it saved you from a great deal of humiliation. Humiliation from what, I asked, barely guessing what embarrassment I could have, would have caused you. You said you would have asked me back had I talked to you. Begged and got down on your knees if you had to. You said you drank alone everyday because of what I did to you. You said you would have gone to wherever I was if I just asked you to.

You said you were madly in love with me.

You said you loved me.

You said you wanted me back.

For now, I’d just hold on to our truth, that we loved and we cared.

I already told you, but I just feel I need to say it again, even if it doesn’t matter much now.

I would have come back.

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listening to:  Chris Isaak – Somebody’s Cryin’