We could do what we wanted to do. When we wanted to. How we wanted to.
Sure, it usually meant drinking, and sometimes passing out in various places in our apartment after a night of painting, Tweeting, or writing...crying...and then waking up and going to work.
We were thinner then. We've put on some weight.
We were more beautiful then. We've grown hateful of our appearance.
We wrote more. It's become a struggle.
We painted then. It's been over a year since we've put brush to canvas. The aching for it is mounting. That next first time, we may cry.
It's going to sound terrible. No matter how much we love you (James).
We were happier.
Not that you don't provide happiness (you do, mostly).
It's just...different.
It was once upon...a very different time. Not too long ago.
This has been a very personal notation.
Sometimes I find myself thinking that if I really loved you as much as I claim then perhaps I'd let you go; then you can be happier again, maybe we'll both be happier.
ReplyDeleteSometimes.
other times... I think differently.