Emotional Fool

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
I'm not quite sure if the ache of regret would have been better or worse than this pain of longing.

Submitted: January 09, 2009

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Submitted: January 09, 2009

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I'm not quite sure if the ache of regret would have been better or worse than this pain of longing.

I also have no clue whether it would have hurt less to feel the sting of unrequited feelings for this short period of time than to have had them returned but then brutally ripped from my grasp prematurely.

It hurts to breath, it hurts to hold my breath.. it hurts to laugh and to cry.. to ponder and to dream. It hurts to think of him and it hurts to block him out.

Every touch, kiss, hug, word, reminds me of him. Somehow. After only the little time we spent together, though it was every waking moment.

Nothing feels right. My soul seems to thrum in agony. My heart continuously tearing apart and breaking. Over and over, an endless cycle of pain.

My chest lurches in sorrow and fear at the reoccurring thought of loneliness, and not only of that but of the absence of him specifically.

My tears flow unbidden, though with struggle regardless. And they bring no relief. Just more sour, shameful drops of confused wistfulness and a storage of breath, a struggle to speak and blotchy, stained cheeks.

What distresses me the most is the blatant lack of control and involvement on both our parts. It's so completely unattainable. I'm positive the anguish would have been dulled had this parting been a decision.

People say it gets easier. Fuck, personal past experiences say it gets easier, and I still don't believe it

I do adore optimism though. Positive thinking is a whole world of salvation, and it is that which leads me to believe he feels the same about me. In truth, I'm pretty certain he thinks he does. But I swear in time he'll forget me. With different yet familiar surroundings, new and exciting distractions? I won't hold a grudge. I never had hope to begin with, so I don't have very far to fall.

Victor Hugo once said life is the flower for which love is the honey. Well I say kill the bees and bury the flower, for a lack of this potent emotion would have spared me copious amounts of grief.

And not so long ago I dismissed even the possibility of the existence of love.

What a fool I am.


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