roma l[e nil or ac]aba

I write more in times of desperation, like I am surfacing for a breath of cold, lung-expanding air. 

I write more in times of necessity, there is a Dickensian component to the desire to write that exists within me. 

I write when I am sad, mad, annoyed, lonely, reclusive. Not when I am happy, and that’s sad. So I want to write about it. 

I almost called you. I could say that after all of this time I finally missed you, missed having a friend to talk to, a voice that felt familiar that I could turn to when life got hard. I almost dialed the number, I had it there, all I needed was to press the phone button and call, and then I didn’t. Because what if the food you ordered was for you and someone else? What if I called and you had moved on? What if… you know, I remember a time when I lost my backpack in Brooklyn. 

I remember this moment because earlier that day my teacher gave me this really cool hilighter that I was so excited for. I was sitting on the platform, waiting for the train to arrive, and when it did, I got up from my seat and walked into the subway cart. By the time I noticed what had happened, the doors had already closed and the train was making its way to the next stop. 

I held onto the hope that my backpack would still be there with the highlighter and my notebooks and my other pens and pencils and whatever else I carried, but by the time we transfered and took the train back to that station, it was all gone. I asked the teller if she had grabbed it, but she said no, and I never saw that backpack, nor the highlighter, again. 

So that’s what happens sometimes. And I almost called you thinking that you would be there still, that you might have waited for me, but that’s just plain foolishness. I won’t call… I won’t know, and that has to be ok. That you may have moved on already, and that my love is not for you as you are, it’s for who you and I were. And I long for those times when I could rest my head on you and feel like things would be ok. 

Loving is the most painful thing you can ever experience. I’ll warn my children and grandchildren about that. But boy does it give life meaning…

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