I miss you that much.

Sometimes, and I mean only 'some'-times, I get this urge to write about you and pour all my feelings on paper. Then I think I would rather have anyone dig their fingers through my skin, tear through it, make my body cross all thresholds of physical agony, and goad my heart out with their raw hands than confront this undulating, ceaseless, omniscient pain that your absence has left me with. How do I even express that you who raised me with your own bare hands, you literally were the backbone to my body, such that at times, I find myself unable to sit up, walk or do any of the normal things normal people do now that you are not here. Is this the kind of void, the hurt, they say, you carry with yourself all your life?

Something goes.

"Well, I love you in messed up ways too."
That is probably one of the few, most beautiful, best things anyone has ever said to me. It's like one of those few sentences that get stuck to my memory, and oddly enough I end up remembering them years and years later exactly as they were uttered in that moment. I have a bad memory. If you ask me what I did in the last few hours, I am likely to not remember, but there are few things I remember, especially few words that were said to me. In fact, most of the memorable things that were said to me came from you, now that I think about it. You are not just occupying my present, you are writing stories of yourself, carving out spaces in my mind with permanent ink. You are not just here today. You were there yesterday too. And I know for certain, that though there is much that I tend to forget, you are now far, far from that part of me.
I love the fact that I am the person you choose to reach out to when you wake up in the middle of the night. I wish that you had more peaceful, uninterrupted nights but I just love the fact that I am the one you choose to trust at 5 am. Sometimes, I really wonder why and reach the conclusion that it is a selfish need to feel wanted that makes me feel this way, but lately, I've come to realise how it is anything but that. Perhaps it has something to do with this overwhelming kind of gratitude I've been feeling towards life these days, grateful that I have you in my life. Perhaps, it is the sense that someone like you can give that place in your life to someone so unlike you, so undeserving, someone like me. And I am so grateful for that; grateful to you, grateful to Him. I think it's strange and kind of darkly comic that you don't believe in Him and yet you are one of the few reasons that make me feel that He exists, so strongly... because how else is all this possible otherwise if God doesn't make miracles happen?

I don't know what will happen in the future and I've abandoned the question only to completely live today and fully enjoy this sense of having you there because god knows how spring turns to autumn when you go.

I hope some day you honestly do actually get to cross the Indian Ocean on a boat. And I also secretly hope that I'm with you on that boat because something(I know, I've been using this word a lot) makes me feel that I might even recover of my fear of the sea if I had to cross it with you. 

No one, and I mean
no
one
ever
should have to go hungry for even one day. No one should have to go bed on an empty stomach even once, just because they couldn't afford something that should not have ever come for a price in the first place. 

Which tense do we belong in?

You are so different
now
than what you
were
It's almost as if the clock itself could not tick,
I could not press these keys
to type those e-mails
(I often now 'save as a draft')
as fast as
this change in
you
It's too great
for me to be able to tell
if you once were,
or are.

Gone.

She says we barely ever  met when she lived in this town and yet I feel her absence deeply. With you, I have spent whatever I can recall of my life. Now, you are actually a thousand miles away and yet I cannot tell the difference. I don't how to feel about this. Sad? I'm confused. The funny part is, now that you are not here, you are communicating more frequently.  I try to miss you, feel your absence and yet I cannot recall a fresh memory of us together. The most hilarious bit out of all is it keeps circling my mind, again and again,  that you actually forgot- yes, forgot, to say goodbye to me before you left. This geographical distance is literally staring at me in the face as you send those pictures of grandly lit London streets. It's almost mimicking the distance that has developed between us over the two years, the kind of distance that cannot be measured; the kind that perhaps, I can only attempt to measure with my words, the words that have become hollow with time, impregnated with the huge void in my life I have not been to fill even after two whole years. My life lacks you now just as lacked you even when you were a 20 minute drive away. The thousand miles don't  make a difference. Many times I consider I shouldn't have given this position to  you in my life ever. I scramble in bed at night because I can't even lay the blame for your absence on anybody. It's maddening, this silence.

At 3:43am

A punch.
A hard, gnarly punch in the gut. I felt it when I went through all our old pictures. You only read about this punch in the gut but I felt it today when I saw the people in those pictures, ran an eye across the room and failed to spot any of those faces around. I felt it when I realised these pictures were from  two years ago. The fist stuck to the gut and ground itself in more firmly. I wanted to somehow magically put my hand through the picture and pull us out here again but we will never be what we were. Now I can't decide if that's good or bad. This exact question will probably cling to me for quite a long, long time.
Some times, I don't know what's more unsettling: the amount of time which has passed by this speedily or the thought that we've moved ahead too far to ever go back to being the way we were. But then I ask myself if I want to be let gone of the same way. I remember my position in the scheme of all things. I see my own lack of power over our time and I also see the necessity of change. So I keep the pictures away in a safe place and I let you go. 

She taught me how to walk. But now why can't she walk on her own? Why can't I be her legs? Why can't I be her back when it's given up on her? Why can't I give all my strength to her? Why can't I give the rest of my long life to her in exchange for hers? Why can't I when it's probably one of the few things in life I very willingly want to do? Why is there no answer?
A part of me is crippled for life.