Eleven thirty of the seventeenth of seven; I can’t keep on loving like this

I can’t keep on searching for you in familiar places, and feelings, and touch. I can’t keep on looking for you when you refuse to show up.

I can’t keep on longing for your embrace and know I can’t have them all the time. I can’t keep feeling helpless and unsafe without you.

I can’t keep looking for you in places we’ve created little homes in, when we know in fact they can never be ours.

And I don’t blame you. I will never even hate you for anything we couldn’t have. Because it’s not your fault that you can’t give me the kind of love that I can give you. This is not an exchange gift, or charity work. I know it doesn’t work like that.

But as much as I want to keep giving you what you deserve, I also need to give more to myself.

So I will not search for you, or long for you, or look for you between seconds, and minutes, and all the places that shows the corners of your face. I will not try to forget you, nor how much you’ve meant. I am only setting myself open for what fate’s so willingly going to hand me out.


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