The Memory of Forgetting

I try to pretend I don't care. That I didn't love you.
Its true, maybe I didn't. Sometimes I don't know if did.

I think about what we had and it was nothing.
I try to remember times you made feel warm inside,
wanted, desired, cared for, protected.
There were certain occasions when I felt that you cared,
times when you made me feel special, like I mattered to you.
I looked forward to those times.
I looked forward to your smiles, your dimples.
I miss your dimples...

Whether or not I loved you, or still love you, you broke my heart.
Right now I feel empty and alone.
I wait for you to realize what you missed out.
Why didn't you want me? Why was I not enough?

I always thought that maybe my reward for
being a good girl would be some one like you.
That the first person I tried opening up to
would love me and fight fiercely for my love,
fight fiercely to let my passion come out,
fight fiercely to free me of this fear of rejection that keeps me captive.

But you didn't. You never did anything. You're stoic.
I don't know if its you, who you are,
who you've been, and who you'll always be.
Or maybe its just me. Maybe I didn't inspire love in you.
I wanted to make you happy, I just didn't know how.
Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference.

What hurts is that you never cared.
I'm crying for you but do you even think of me?
I long for you to call me, to tell me you want me,
that you made a mistake and I feel like such a dumb girl.

I know you won't. It wasn't love. Couldn't have been.
How could I have loved, still love,
someone to whom I was so insignificant to?
But like Neruda, tonight I can also write the saddest lines.
"I no longer love you, that's certain, but maybe I love you.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

The echo of your memory haunts me.
I try to erase you. I try to pretend you were just a dream.
I try to forget your arms around me, your scent,
the way the soft downy hair on your arms would rub against mine,
gently tickling my naked skin.

But I can't. I don't know how.
I function on autopilot. I try to keep busy.
To keep living. To re-piece my heart back together.
I try to find love in someone else. No one else is you.

I want to hurt you. To make you feel the way I feel.
Rejected. Dejected. Empty. Shattered. Invisible. Insignificant.
But I don't know how to. I know I can't. Nothing I can do can hurt you.
Because you never cared.

Instead I write to you things you will never read and hope that I heal.
That I forget. That I forgive. That I find happiness. I deserve it.
I want it with you, but know its impossible. Maybe you can't love.
You're a stone. A carcass, empty of emotion, incapable of loving.
Yet knowing this, I still want you...