“And I wonder when I sing along with you,
If everything could ever feel this real forever.
If anything could ever be this good again.”
~ Everlong, By Foo Fighters
I wake alone, my heart burning for him. Every second he is not here chips away a shard of my fragmenting soul. His voice echoes around my mind, his laugh is all I can think of. I lie there for hours, trying to forget him, forget the words he allegedly said, forget the words he said to my face.
I remember his eyes, his smile, his hair, his presence, his joy and his despair. The jokes we shared, the dances we did, the tricks we perfected, and the words we sung together.
I remember the time I thought I could tell him absolutely anything.
But if he was the needle, I was the thread. He was the book, I was the price. He was the clouds, and I was the rain.
For this is my never-ending story, as the hanger-on, the one hated by all. People respect and fear the needle, while they scorn the thread. People adore the book, while they scorn the price. People admire the clouds, while they run from the rain.
I cannot prevent the choices of my heart and soul, yet deep down I know. I need someone who appreciates the thread, accepts the price, and dances in the rain.
It is an indisputable tragedy, when a close friend betrays you. Many sensational stories have been woven, by glorious authors, around this subject. But now, instead of reading about this tragedy, I am still in the throes of experiencing it.
Tell me, how can you tell someone you love them, if as soon as they walk away you throw their name to the ground and stomp on it with steel toed boots? How can you even claim to care, when you so clearly despise them behind closed doors?
See, I’ve been told the truth about him, but the thing is, I love him just the same.
What does that say about me?
Maybe, just maybe, it’s a good thing that you’re gone.