Rocket to the Moon

I never want to lose this pain. 

This pain is all that’s left of you. All that is left of what was once a remarkably fairytale-esque relationship. And oh, the irony! That I’ve forgotten everything I said I would. The taste of your skin, the sound of your laugh, the rockets you drew. 

You are so far away from me now, and me from you, and the distance keeps growing. Separated by oceans of time, tides that drag further and further until the waters of memory become murky, and all that’s left is the shadow of what used to be raw.

It took all my strength to keep breathing, to keep the dying organ within my hollow chest pumping, because you leaving felt as though the world was dying, and crushing me into a tiny little ball, and all that’s left now is the faded imprint of loneliness that aches from the knowledge that distance matters. Absolutely, it matters. 

But I never want to lose this pain. 

Because losing it means losing you, and I don’t want that. I want to keep this little ache still, because even as I write, I know the ache lessens, and past experiences has taught me that you can and will forget, or get used to. Eventually, it won’t matter what you call it. Ultimately, the only thing left is you against the world.

And losing the pain means you’ve started over. 

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