Interludes

It's been more than half a year. You've moved on without me, and I-

I sort of moved on.

Well, if moving on means once in a while I sit in the quiet darkness of my car, in the passenger seat, trying to both remember and forget how it felt to taste your breath, to taste anyone's breath. If it meant feeling completely fine and developing new crushes and then going home and wonder if he's ever gonna make me feel the way you made me feel. If moving on means once in a while I wake up with phantom fingers on my waist with the ghost of warm breaths on my neck.

If moving on means occasionally, in the middle of a conversation, I get hit by the realisation that I'd probably wouldn't ever get that magical feeling of having someone understand and still accept how depraved and terrible I can be, that incomparable feeling of complete unapologeticness and freedom.

So, yes, I guess I sort of moved on.

I've moved forward, away from you. But that doesn't mean I've stopped loving, even though I"m not exactly sure what it is I still love. I suppose I love the feeling of being in love, and being cherished. I moved away from you, but I suspect I moved closer to love. How else do you explain this constant yawning emptiness that yearns to be filled that didn't use to be so prominent?

For someone who doesn't even know what is love, I'm using the word a tad too much.

Perhaps I should just stop wondering so much, and just let things be.