Maybe she loved him, sometime back in December.
She feels sorry for anyone who forgets the feeling. She feels sorry for anyone who has never had the opportunity to kiss his sleeping pulse. She feels sorry for anyone who has never felt his large hands on the back of their neck, who has never felt how goddamn beautiful it is to fall in love with another human being. He was imperfect and disorganised and needed her to finish his fullstops, to put a breath inbetween his words. She was sad but hopeful and never wanted to leave his side but sometimes love isn't enough to make you want to stay. He was wonderful but he was ruin and heartbreak and empty sighs. She was tired of crying battered tears and questioning herself, "how", questioning him, "why" and being met with silence.
She was strong enough to let go and wise enough to understand that it was wrong to give yourself so completely to someone yet stupid enough to want to keep being with him, fooling herself that it was okay to get hurt as long as he continued to be her safety net. She could weave lies and beautiful words, a glimmer of illusion, a lamp-shade over the pain she felt inside. But happiness was too far out of reach and she forgot too-long, too-much how smiling worked.
So she picked up the pieces of herself, tucked them into her breast pocket and stitched as much of herself together as possible before she left the warm bed of comfort and his whispers of forevers and promises she wanted to believe in. Sometimes reality has to sink in and she was too weak to be strong any longer.
Maybe she loved him, sometime back in December.
And maybe she loves him, sometime yesterday.
And maybe she will keep loving him, sometime tomorrow.
