english,
The feeling kills.
When you miss someone who lives in a different country, someone whose phone has a foreign area code, whose town is on a different time zone, whose city’s weather you check every morning when you wake up, and someone who unexpectedly staggered into your life, the missing and all that jazz can be utterly detrimental. It forces itself under your skin, crawls through your veins and plays wicked games as it buries itself unto your heart.
You busy yourself to forget the longing. You try not to think about it – about him. You try not to ponder about how his heart beats as you rest your head on his chest, about how his face lights up when he talks about comics and superheroes, about how his voice gets all manly, low, and protective when you’re around other guys, about how he comfortably sings in the car even when he completely admits he’s not that good of a singer. You try not to think about the way he opens up to you his whole self, about how he reaches for your hand when he knows you feel uneasy in large crowds, about the first dinner you had with his family and you were all anxious but he assured you that everything will be okay, about the conversations, the hugs, the laughs, and the tears, and about the happiness he made you feel.
You try to forget all of it, but only for the mean time. You do all sorts of things. You pig out. You read. You argue with people whom you really don’t want to argue with. You tell jokes that are oftentimes way too hilarious and sarcastic for this world. You laugh even though you don’t feel like it. You busy yourself to avoid remembering. You busy yourself to avoid hurting.
You’re already going fine until one cold morning, as you were cleaning your desk, you found a Man of Steel movie ticket – your first movie together – tucked between one of your journal pages. And just like that, memories jumped you like muggers in the darkness. The missing invaded your mind faster than a jackrabbit in front of a prairie fire. You’re held captive. Your eyes started to warm as you closed your journal. Tears ran down your cheeks and you uttered profanities at the daybook for reminding you of the achingly poignant longing you were trying so terribly to forget. It made you wish he were there to argue about where the two of you should eat when all you can say is ‘anywhere is fine.’ It made you wish he were close enough to hold. But he wasn’t.
When you miss someone who lives in a different country, you fall asleep imagining lying down together as you hold your pillows close. You try your best to decrypt the pitch and pauses of his voice because you can’t always see his eyes when you talk. You learn how to be patient. You want him, more than anything.
Most of all, you remember he’s worth it. He’s worth the excruciating pain, the warmest tears, and the whole lot of waiting.
The feeling kills.
But it’s worth it.
Literary (Submission): The Sweet Kind of Pain
The feeling kills.
When you miss someone who lives in a different country, someone whose phone has a foreign area code, whose town is on a different time zone, whose city’s weather you check every morning when you wake up, and someone who unexpectedly staggered into your life, the missing and all that jazz can be utterly detrimental. It forces itself under your skin, crawls through your veins and plays wicked games as it buries itself unto your heart.
You busy yourself to forget the longing. You try not to think about it – about him. You try not to ponder about how his heart beats as you rest your head on his chest, about how his face lights up when he talks about comics and superheroes, about how his voice gets all manly, low, and protective when you’re around other guys, about how he comfortably sings in the car even when he completely admits he’s not that good of a singer. You try not to think about the way he opens up to you his whole self, about how he reaches for your hand when he knows you feel uneasy in large crowds, about the first dinner you had with his family and you were all anxious but he assured you that everything will be okay, about the conversations, the hugs, the laughs, and the tears, and about the happiness he made you feel.
You try to forget all of it, but only for the mean time. You do all sorts of things. You pig out. You read. You argue with people whom you really don’t want to argue with. You tell jokes that are oftentimes way too hilarious and sarcastic for this world. You laugh even though you don’t feel like it. You busy yourself to avoid remembering. You busy yourself to avoid hurting.
You’re already going fine until one cold morning, as you were cleaning your desk, you found a Man of Steel movie ticket – your first movie together – tucked between one of your journal pages. And just like that, memories jumped you like muggers in the darkness. The missing invaded your mind faster than a jackrabbit in front of a prairie fire. You’re held captive. Your eyes started to warm as you closed your journal. Tears ran down your cheeks and you uttered profanities at the daybook for reminding you of the achingly poignant longing you were trying so terribly to forget. It made you wish he were there to argue about where the two of you should eat when all you can say is ‘anywhere is fine.’ It made you wish he were close enough to hold. But he wasn’t.
When you miss someone who lives in a different country, you fall asleep imagining lying down together as you hold your pillows close. You try your best to decrypt the pitch and pauses of his voice because you can’t always see his eyes when you talk. You learn how to be patient. You want him, more than anything.
Most of all, you remember he’s worth it. He’s worth the excruciating pain, the warmest tears, and the whole lot of waiting.
The feeling kills.
But it’s worth it.
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