When I was with you there was an overwhelming sense that I could be anyone, do anything, go anywhere. Then you took your love away and all the greatness drained from me.
I was never one to rely on anyone. My dependence on you for strength then was surreptitious. It snuck in when I wasn't looking and strung itself across my psyche, a tripwire waiting for you to leave and for me to go running after, to trigger and lay me low in pathetic desperation.
That's the real curse of your love. That even when I recognized it as something real that I was feeling, and in no way taking for granted—that when the time came for you to give up on it, that I'd be left a husk, a shell—and the never-realized dependency would turn into a poisoned dagger then thrust deep into my quivering flank. Not mortal a wound enough to kill, but one so deep that it would never heal. A wound that would ache in the rain.
And despite all of this, I still miss you.
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