What remains…

It was a Sunday. I had just returned from an amazing trip to Srilanka: a happy place where I left behind my grumpy alter-ego. I had little sleep the night before and all I could think of was that today is his birthday. Him: the man who ripped a piece of me. A fast disintegrating part that is transforming into vapors that will soon merge with the ether. I wanted to be the first to wish him a good year. To hint that I did not forget this date, that I remember how much he hated his birthday in particular. That in a way, a microscopical bit of me still cares and misses his presence in my daily life. That too was bound to fade soon…

They say that the body remembers. Mine does to a certain extent. My memory still keeps a record of how his sweaty palm felt while holding mine. I loved his hands. I wonder if soon, that will vanish too, like the missing… It doesn’t hurt me to remember though. I don’t ache when I re-read our old conversations or my numerous transcripts, and looking at the painting he lovingly (?) replicated as a gift for me, has become meaningless. It is sad to forget. It is annoying to let go of something/someone you cherished. It is strange how after a while, significant items become (using one of his favorite words) redundant (as opposed to dreamy). It is morbid how we willingly give certain individuals precious pieces of ourselves and they never return them to us, but instead step on them deliberately and ruthlessly.

If my friend reads this, she would probably say that I am not over his love. And no matter how much I will assure her that it’s not the case, she would still have her doubts. But no, I do not miss him. And I have ceased to love him. He is no longer a part of me.

I write not to remember, but to forget. And before I forget…


2 thoughts on “What remains…

  1. we long for the parts we’re missing.. and when you love someone, you love them forever, that’s what a little prince told me. “on risque de pleurer un peu si l’on s’est laissé apprivoiser”

    ps: never justify your writing. write, empty your feelings.

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