Some things are best written, but not sent. And that is where I find myself at this moment - with a page full of words that are best left to be just that - words on a page:
I spent yesterday trying to piece together my feelings and
understand what has been going on. And the only thing I can figure is that what
we had wasn’t love at all. And it
saddens me, but relieves me at the same time.
You must have known this during these entire 6 weeks. Perhaps you ended this because, on your end,
it was merely an infatuation, while on my end it was real, altruistic love? Infatuation dies after a few months, but love
lives on and on and on. And real,
honest-to-God, feel it from your head to your toes love DOES conquer all. All I ever asked for from this relationship
was love. And I honestly thought that
was what I had. But now, as the reality
sets in, I’m not so sure.
My love for you conquered my fears of falling in love – you meant
more to me than every ounce of pain from my past. I pitched my fear of committing because my
love for you was more powerful than my fear of being left behind or abandoned. That is love.
Being vulnerable in front of your partner – that is love. Sharing your feelings and thoughts, telling
your partner why you hurt – that is love.
Telling you about my mother and how much it hurt to lose her – that was
both love and trust. But you never told
me anything that bothered you, despite my asking. Was it that you didn’t trust me, or was it
that you just didn’t love me? These are
the things that pain me now. Not the end
of the relationship – I don’t even know if it was real anymore. And that is why I am so sad.
There are so many things that I know about you. You love Missoni and D&G. And any accent items for yourself or your
house in gold. “Lovesong” by The Cure
makes you cry every time you hear it, and the song Relax by Mika makes you
think. You love those goofy fantasy
novels and your favorite TV show is King of Hill. You love La Tavola, hate olives, and drink
Kir Royales. You love 80’s music and Dr.
Dre, when you hear Justin Timberlake you think about Cara. You love Italy so much that sometimes I
think you wish you were Italian. You’re
very picky about your olive oil and balsamic.
You dilute your POM juice. You prefer
Orange San Pelligrino to Orangina. You love
California. You collect frogs and have this whole “frog
prince” thing going. You want a
motorcycle but are torn between spending the money, the safety aspects, and the
midlife crisis thing. And if you get
one, it will most likely be Italian. And
you’ll probably go overboard and get the one that has the flag on it, too.
But you don’t really know much about me. You couldn’t even remember where we had our
first date. To me, it was unforgettable, but to you – I don’t even want to speculate
what it was or wasn’t to you.
What I do know is this.
I want love. Real, honest-to-God,
comes from deep inside-the-heart love.
The kind of love that overlooks my flaws. The kind of love that trusts me. Confides in me. Shares hopes and fears with me. The kind of love that grows and grows over
time – not the kind that hits a speedbump at the 6 month mark and runs
My heart is so big and I have so much to offer, and I want
to find love more than anything in this world, but it has to be real. I have to believe that the love is real. And I honestly don’t know if what we had was
real anymore. And that is why I’m so
disappointed. So crushed and hurt. And
that is why I needed to just go away.
Because you keep telling me you love me, but I don’t understand