France, Day 6: Paris

You’d like it here.

Maybe that’s why it feels like you’re missing from every meal, every seat I’ve taken at a bistro with the sun on my face, every corner I’ve rounded with a new experience just beyond.

gazing at the Eiffel Tower

Wish you were here.

It seems like every letter I write you begins with a bout of insomnia, and the one I wrote on the journey over here was no different. This time though, it was everything left unsaid, a promise to be completely honest with my feelings, an openness I’d never shown you before in hopes that it would mean something. I used to take refuge in what I held back, and this letter was the very last of myself I had to give. I wondered how I could get it to you, what little bauble to include before dropping it in a mailbox, just like old times, skipping loose stones on the steps to your house.

But nothing I could say would change a thing, something I only realized when I read it again after a night of sleep (and what a wonderful sleep it was). I always questioned what your feelings and intentions were, and now it’s never been more clear. By this point I only blame myself for not figuring that out sooner, and for taking so long to understand that you’ll never be able to give me any semblance of closure, well-intentioned as you may be. My only excuse is that it was never simply about accepting with what we’ve become, it was about coming to terms with life and fate too.

My anger used to keep me company, but every fire runs out of fuel, and when the anger receded, I was left with nothing but longing. That’s why I have to let you go when my heart is calm and my head is clear. Being in Paris this time, among so much stimulation and intimacy in the old city streets, has given me a happiness I never knew at home, a happiness I never thought was possible without you.

I’ve never been one to give up on what I believe in, and I believed in you and us and love. That’s why I’ve been clinging to this hope, but I’ve loved you long enough. It’s time I start loving myself. It’s a pity I can’t do both, cause I hate myself for loving you.

I’ve carried you with me for so long, but when I leave Paris I’ll have to leave you behind too.

One comment

  1. “It’s time I start lov­ing myself.”


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