Music: The Funeral - Band Of Horses
In the midst of yet another irresponsible weekend, I find myself walking back to my apartment and the thought of him lingering heavily in my mind.
I trip onto my bed and carelessly remove my shoes. Reaching for my phone and trying to use the best of my drunken judgments, I typed coherent sentences, I think. Waking up the next morning, I realized I had sent yet again another pathetic text, demonstrating how much of a cheesy loser I was. And how much I missed having him in my life.
At this point, he is unfazed by my stupidity and desperation. Yet week after week, I try and honestly though, without a real purpose.
I don't really know or understand the point in me doing all of this. It's not like I want the relationship back or a boyfriend at this point in time. But I want...him back?
I never understood the idea of people calling their other halves their best friend. I thought it was the most disturbing idea ever. Falling in love with your best friend? You have got to be kidding me. But, as I sit here tonight and struggle to put my heavy thoughts into words, I think I've kind of realized that he was one of my best friends.
I realize that I go through motions of the day with him at the back of my mind and am always fighting the urge to snap a picture of a fat squirrel and sending it to him. Or maybe sitting with an unappealing sandwich and wishing I had him there to eat it for me instead of just throwing it away. Or even, wanting him by me when the day is beautiful outside only for him to ruin the moment by making inappropriate remarks.
I can't ever put a real definition on our relationship. We were so many things, both good and bad. Certainly we weren't the perfect couple everyone was envious of and certainly we weren't the kind of friends that girls have with their gay best friends. But we had...something.
I don't know what it is but I want that something back in my life.
---
Going home to the sound of his hostile voice ringing in my ears. It's hard to accept all of this but it feels like I had just gone to a funeral.
I hold on to his blue dress shirt and the blurry memory of his blue eyes. The scribbles of his notes and the distant sound of his laughter.
It feels like I just buried a part of my life deeper than just 6 feet under.
