On love and loss

I think about you often. Almost as often as I did when we were still something. A little less now, but you're still on my mind. I think about you at odd times of the day, and mostly in passing. I think about you when eating food that I know you loved. I think about you when I listen to certain songs. I think about you when someone holds my hand, and when no one is holding my hand. I imagine your hand in mine and how it used to feel. I imagine how your face used to be, right up close to mine, feeling each other breathing as we fell asleep. 

But the thoughts have changed. They used to be thoughts filled with extreme love and the intense sadness of losing you. I missed you too much, you were away for too long. Now it's changed into fleeting thoughts passing through my mind before they're overrun by other things. A very short reminder of what we once had, but they're still there. You're still in my head. You probably always will be. The blips become fainter, less jarring, less painful, but I think they'll always be there.

I'm still sad about what we lost. I wonder whether I'll ever again feel what we felt together. I hope for it, but as the days and months go by (and eventually years), I yearn for it less. I wonder if I'll really end up alone, and whether I'll be alright if I do. 

The truth is, I think I would be alright because I'm left with an awareness of how deeply I'm capable of feeling for someone, and that I'm worthy of that same depth. It rarely lasts for an eternity, and it just didn't for us. We'll move on with our lives no longer intertwined, our planes of existence further separating as more time collects between our final goodbye. 

I'll still think about you often, but no longer as a loss. You're a reminder of what I'm capable of. I'll be lucky to feel it again, but I've made peace with not feeling it with you.