Still Something

Even as she typed the words, she knew she shouldn’t. She knew she only perpetuated her heartbreak in doing so. Even after everything that happened, after all the tactless words, after all the countless tears, there was still something hiding just beneath the surface. Still that feeling of loss. Still the idea that he might be the one that got away. Why she continued this pattern she was quite unaware. Surely she had moved on. He certainly wasn’t the one occupying her thoughts as of late. But some how she still needed him. She needed to hear his voice. She needed to see his face. She needed to know that he was ok. And so every once in a while, when she saw a Whitman poem, or heard a song he loved, she would think of him. She would remember the cool November air the day they ruled the world. She would recount the conversations held in the dark hours of morn. She would remember the way his eyes look the night he kissed her. And then she would send him a message to inquire about his life and patiently await his delayed response. On the inside, her heart would fracture just a touch as she tried to memorize the feelings they had surely lost. A knot would form in her throat as she remembered the night they traveled to Italy and Spain from the comfort of her den. And then, as if to represent her solitude, a single tear might form, to remind her of the day things changed. Even after all this time, there was still something she couldn't release.