January by Ravens and Chimes
I miss being hurt.
5 years ago I met the beautiful, wonderful, smart, funny woman who became my wife and with whom I spend all my time being happy and content and free.
It wasn’t always like this. Most of my life before this was full of rejection. Yearning for someone who did not want to be with me. A procession of women who would look at me and say, “not you.”
And when I was with anyone, it would be fleeting and painful. Brief moments of frantic emotion that ended in mascara tracking down flushed cheeks or scratches on a fragile wrist. Hearts broken and curses cast.
I think I spent most of one year in college wearing black and walking around moodily sucking on cigarettes, indenting the air with smoke as I wrote a speech in my head to get someone back. Over and over.
Now I’m happy and content and blissfully complete. I need never be lonely again.
And yet. Yet, a part of me misses the pain. I think it’s a phantom sensation, like a lost limb still itching. Habits form and aren’t easy to get rid of. I want to be broken hearted just once more. I want to sit in the dark wishing for someone. I want to crawl inside a song. Just one more time. Then I’ll be able to let it go.