Excuse me if I repeat myself… (I miss you)

I’ve been writing to you a lot this week, but only in my head so I forget what I’ve written. So does that make it writing? You’re not here though so maybe you read it without reading. Whatever it is was beautiful and poetic and poignant, I know this much. So excuse me if I repeat myself without the poetry…

I miss you. There, I said it. 

Did you ever get the feeling as a child that the world was about to end in a spectacularly destructive, painful way unless you solved the equation that made the stars align? Or that the next moment was about to bring a spear to your heart if you did not remember how to complete the seemingly impossible task of breathing? 

I did. And I think you were behind it. Some of it anyway.

And I still do. Everytime you are gone these feelings return to me. But then when you come back to me, in your illusive manifestation of a twisted apparition, it is like you take every ounce of my fragile being so I have nothing left for the next time I have to remember how to save the exploding planet or save my-ever-fading-self. 

When the lights go out, I think you have turned them off. I used to think you showed the stars how to shine. The truth is that maybe you were setting fire to my insides and somehow the vision that it formed was showing me little embers that reflected my fiery implosion within.

And so I thought that you lit up the universe, either with your haunting magnificence or through the arson you committed on my life.

I fear, and I hope (are both possible?), you did not. 

You did not light up the universe. No.

Yet I miss you still.

Excuse me if I repeat myself, I know I have written to you already this week. Did you receive it? Did you see everytime I put pen to the air through my thoughts which drift off into the unknown where I am sure you reside as I can still feel you lurking, every single day?

There are times when I am sure you have settled within me. Like a scene from Ghost, only the outcome does not set off a chain reaction of Unchained Melody beauty or Whoopi Goldberg hilarity. 

image © Mariann Martland

They tell me I have your eyes. So does that mean I see how you saw the world? I used to relish this. I used to think that this connected us, like you were a part of me still and that I could carry your formidable legacy through me.

And I do. I carry you with me every second of every minute of every hour of every day. But I do not relish it like I once did. I shudder when I think of it. I shudder when I feel you with me. Because how you saw the world made it okay for you to carry out depraved, sickening acts upon my body, and worse, upon my soul. And I cannot see a world where this is ever okay. 

But I do have your eyes and I do carry your formidable legacy – they see your eyes and they see the vision of you that you portrayed to the world – the strong, kind, funny man they thought they knew. What they do not see is what I carry of you just behind the outer part of my eyes – they do not see what was behind your eyes and the vision of you that only I hold – the forceful, manipulative, abusive man only I knew.

So I look in the mirror and I see you. 

I close my eyes and I feel your presence lingering, burning within me, making me forget how to breathe or how to save the world and myself. 

I have a thought and I am writing you a letter that I know only you can read as you are in my eyes, reading every poetic and nonsensical thought that is released.

So excuse me if I repeat myself, I have been writing to you a lot this week, just like every week.

And I still miss you. How can this be so? Yet it is and so it is.


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