Oddly, it doesn’t hurt any less as I get older. I am less dramatic, less vengeful, less spontaneous, but the pain is the same. Outward rationality conceals a monumental inner loss that hollows me out, leaving me voiceless and foiled, grasping for the intangible words that will rouse your heart to reconsider. Failing that, I falter, clutching at the handrailing, at my side, as another exquisite chance slowly fades from view.
In the end, even after all of the conversations and tears and uncertainties, it is still as basic as a primary blue. I want you back.
