I know you try not to come around anymore, but I have this compulsion to say things to you that maybe I shouldn't say to you. So here's my solution, my middle ground. You choose.
I wish things between us could be again the way they were before. I wish we could take those moments of sweetness and closeness and comfort and warmth in the crisp, cool mountain air (because it always is crisp, cool mountain air in my memory) and distill them, and drink them again. I can taste it all whenever I think of you. I can't stop tasting it. I feel your hand in my hand all the time. I feel you in my arms, I feel your sweatshirt against my face all the time. Sometimes I think it's the day in the orchard, or a day on Skyline that I'm reliving. Sometimes I think it's our last hug--the last hug between Us, instead of just between David and Marie, wholly separate entities--at Richard's or just outside Bottom's Up, at the very end. Your shirt was so soft. You were so warm.
I was thinking today that that may have been the last time I felt safe--but who keeps a running tally? And everyone knows I have drama running in my veins, a gift of both bloodlines. But must I question everything? You made me feel safe when I was close to you. Sometimes, and today, the world doesn't feel right without you within reach. That we aren't connected is difficult for me to grasp, even after nearly six months. And yet, there have been days or even weeks when it seemed okay. When I remembered things about you that drove me insane. I know there have been, but it's difficult to feel them now. I want to drive to where you are living and make you take this all back, but I could never make you do anything. I don't know if I could stand the rejection again.
I write things like this, and now I'm talking to the internet at large, and I have this almost overwhelming paranoia about being "emo." I sort of wish I could stop caring about it, but then sometimes I think that this aversion is the only thing keeping me out of the mire. I can be so melancholy. I can be so dramatic. I write things that are true, but I can't write them without enough spin to make you seasick. I can't write them without falling in love with the sound of the words that are spilling from my fingers. I would never make it at the Christian Science Monitor.