one.

All the things that I wish I could say, but am way too cowardly to ever speak aloud:

Why is it that stable loves are never the ones anyone wants to talk about?  The love that blossoms from a lifelong friendship and that faces no problems is never worthy of writing.

So as a writer, why does writing about those messy loves that can never work out, why do those stay in our heads?  Why can we write about those all the time?

Doesn’t writing about those loves make it impossible to get over.

Because it sure feels like it when time has passed and our crazy, messy, masochistic love is still worthy of writing.

And I don’t want to want to write about you.  I can’t stand you.

I can’t stand you even though I think you’re funny.  I can’t stand you even though I think you’re handsome.  I can’t stand you even though periods of time can pass and you can still read my mind.

Maybe I can’t stand you because I see so much of myself in you.

I don’t love you anymore.  That I can say with absolute certainty.  In fact, I’m in love with someone else.

I’m not even in love with our story.  Our story is messy, and awful, and ends badly.

But I’m in love with writing about you.

I’m in love with our long looks across rooms.  I’m in love with the way your hand grazes mine while your significant other is in the room.  I’m in love with the thousands of times we’ve whispered I miss you in a room full of people.  In love with the way you think I’m funny when I’m saying something casual.  In love with the way you’ll finish my sentence when I’m still trying to figure out what to say.

See, I don’t love you anymore, but writing about you makes me think about you.  And that’s the part I could do without.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Audience of One.”

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