im in love with you, but I don’t want to be. I blame you for my woes, but it isn’t you you were just a tiny percentage a smidgen of hope I hung unto, the glimmer barely, there like the painting of glitter, the spark in the thinner edges of my mind there was a hug you gave me once, at the step of your door, after you came back. I knew you so well, I had a gift for you, I forget what, I want to say flowers. Your silhouette marched behind the glass doors. you didn’t know it was me. I’ve been messaging you, tiny hints of my departure, which you didn’t totally pick up on. You opened the door. And I uttered words, that didn’t matter, like “why didn’t you-” you hugged me. And I kept asking you the question. – this is important, because, I didn’t want to be overwhelmed by emotion, so I verbally tried to cut out your overwhelming intimate touch, just a hug, by spewing this verbal vomit. You hugged me harder at the step of your door. Squeezing me, almost, but with this passionate reflex that, put me so far into you, I still remember it as if it happened a few hours ago. It’s been two years. It feels like a few fucking hours. But I know it’s not. What’s funny, to support this passage is, people ask me how long I’ve had my hair cut, I say “a few months” it’s been over two years. My tracking of time is just lost, like that hug commenced this time warp where im sucked into it. Today a coworker pat me on the back to wipe some dirt off. I didn’t want them to stop patting me, it’s like any real interaction with humans, something as simple as a pat to wipe off a patch of dirt, reminds me of your fucking doorstep. Now when I hug, I hug hard. I hug people hard. I want people to remember these hugs, maybe I could just give people the same feeling as you did and still do to me. Picasso, I would pay Picasso billions, and I would pay whoever could resurrect him even more, just so, we can go back in time, hell, you rose a man from the dead, so we’re going back in time, so he could photo frame my face, the moment your arms wrapped around me, in your black coat, I never seen you in. and Id want him to paint my face. Id want to see my face in art in that moment. it would be called “broken heart”, because in that moment my heart wasn’t broken, it was mended, melded. Sewn. it was just the following months, years- well minutes in my world that broke it again. I wonder if anybody has any slight innervation about what I feel on a daily basis, over a damned, hug. God damn, you. I just, wish, I could just breathe again.