“To touch something real will help your wounds to heal.”

I don’t miss you. I never have. Not once, for a fleeting moment, have I thought about you and felt a fondness. The not thinking is making me think. After all, did I not profess to have loved you? Did I not believe in a happiness that we created? In the nearly two years of my life that I was your girl, did I not make sacrifices with our future in mind?

They were an eventful two years. They were not nothing. They were not idly passing the time as though watching traffic out of my peripheral vision. You happened to me and it meant something. You gathered me up with all of your strength when I was broken and sad and you set about sorting my pieces. I may have put myself back together, but your kind and gentle ways helped make that possible. How then, when I ought to be indebted to you, do I never think of you?

It felt like something very real, what we were making. It restored a drive and a sense of passion within me. Our think tank sessions were electrified. We sat across from one another in your kitchen, smoking cigarettes, drinking cocktails and scheming and plotting, well until the sun began to peak over the horizon. We are giddy with anticipation and we fed off the others’ excitement. It felt real and it was healing me.

Something that you figure out later on in life is that there are certain people who come into your life for a very specific purpose. You may suppose in advance what that may be. You may also be surprised to find out that your supposition was incorrect. You might find yourself completely blindsided by the end of it all.

For our end, I believe that your purpose in my life was two-fold: the first was to show me that there are men out there who will not take their anger at the world out on me. The second was to show me, remind me of, my personal worth. One of the awful consequences of having been abused was a puncture in my self-esteem. I didn’t believe that I deserved to be abused. But the image I had of myself as a strong powerful female fell to the wayside. And by helping me to heal with your kind ways, I was able to build myself back up again.

I don’t think about you. In the end, you revealed yourself as not worth holding on to. When you didn’t get what you wanted (me/us), you turned everything off. You refused to show any emotion because you felt it served no purpose.

Your robotic treatment of our demise was the best gift a parting lover has ever given me. You were not additional weight on the pile of love lost, of regrets and dreams dashed. You simply finished a transaction. It’s no good for this romantic heart, this.

It is why I never think of you.

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Whitley – More Than Life

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this was written by Tara Noble. she’s written a lot of these. you should read a lot of these.