This is my verse. The longings, the pain, the love, the beauty of it all. Being able to write about it, explain it in no uncertain terms.

I never want to forget the time I had with you. I’m afraid I will be old and I will think back and dismiss what we had. I’m afraid I will forget the small details, your hair in my hand, touching your neck and ear on that first date, you giving me that chewing gum, Serra, being behind you on that train, jumping fences, creating art, going around in a car, getting a flower at the airport. I’m afraid I will get old and all this meaning, all these important, small details will be lost in time, forever forgotten like a drop in the sea. I’m afraid I will be old and I will loose all of this beauty and joy, I will loose what made me a better person. I will forget how you opened up life for me, made me realize there is so much to do here, so much joy and happiness and love to be had. That there is such a thing as being loved. That there is a reason to live.

I miss you. And I’m afraid. I never want to forget.

I saw your beautiful picture on LinkedIn and I realized the amazing professional work you have done and how I would talk about it proudly to others. I loved how serious you were about your work, how you were torn about when things didn’t go well, how you could explain to me all of it. I miss hearing about your work and your colleagues, your friends who were also doing amazing things. I loved how serious you could be when it came to work and how dedicated you were to the cause. I could listen for hours you talking about it. I miss those hours…

At work, somebody talked about buying gifts for her mother and I remembered how amazing it was to give gifts to you. You always made me feel good about them, always appreciated them. You were the best person to give gifts to. I miss giving you gifts. I miss that feeling of knowing that I have something to give to you but not revealing it. I miss seeing you being happy about them and telling me stories about how you used them or wore them. I miss making you happy.

At various times, various places, you just come to me. I remember the amazing conversations we had, your curiosity and thirst for more. I remember the gentle, caring love we would make, always making sure to be attentive and good to one another. I remember the time you told me I must ask questions and I remember the time you were unwilling to tell me your name. I remember the time you fell asleep on my lap and I played you Russian folk songs, and I remember waking up to confessing our love to one another. I remember those slow mornings, those ever-lasting evenings in bars and clubs, long walks and bike roads, thinking about how to jump a fence and seeing you having already jumped it. I remember these times and I see the underlying beauty of it, that intangible thing that makes life worth living.

It was her who made me feel good in B. I didn’t understand that before. I read through our very earliest messages, and there it was. She was the one planning all the things, inviting me around, sending links and talking about art and discussing about culture and feminism and class. It was her who made me happy in that city. She was the one full of energy and kindness and care and it was her who wrote the most beautiful essays of love that only on the surface seemed normal but deep down they were sonnets of love and care. They were the manifestation of kindness and thoughtfulness, the kind of thing that only happens when one is being attentive, paying attention to the other. It was the care that I mentioned to her in that last email — the ever-present, gentle care. The one you only notice isn’t there anymore when you fall. I fell and I miss it. I miss her. I miss her care and gentleness. I will miss it all.

I want you to be there, A. I want to hold your hand, see you once more, tell you how much you brought into my life, tell you how amazing you are and how blessed I was to have you. Thank you for the life that you have given me, for the beauty and joy you brought me, for letting me love you and having your beautiful, gentle, caring love. Thank you. I will never forget.

She left me on Saturday. I went to get a bowl of cereal just before talking, to eat a bit. How irrelevant, yet when I saw the dry, empty bowl after our chat, it was strange but I thought: that bowl, that expectation of just having a chat, that made no sense at all. Seeing that was almost like a form of sarcasm.

I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t know. I was wrong. I got on a cycle, a repetition of myself. Not interested in her, her history, her life. I was concentrated on myself, my own life, my own hardship. I didn’t see her. I was blinded by the everyday. I was frustrated and annoyed and bored with the everyday and forgot to see all the beauty we had together. Those moments of pure silence that were short manifestations of the eternal beauty we brought into this world. When we didn’t have to say anything, just hold one another. Those moments of being understood and cared for. I lost track of all of that and ended up being tired and lonely, afraid that I’m alone again. I was selfish. I’m sorry, A. I’m terribly sorry I let you hang there without me being around you. I’m sorry I didn’t think of you, dream of you, love you. I’m sorry.

Biking back home on this early summer day, all the girls dressed light and short, beautiful legs, beautiful smiles, the sun on their beautiful breasts and I’m just going home, going nowhere, to the ether where nothing awaits but my own boredom and now I feel like this idiot who will never be happy, always longing for a beautiful girlfriend, who will never come. Like when I was a child, just longing, waiting, and self-hating for being stupid and for never being good enough for a girl, just me and my feelings of uselessness and self-hate. Biking, seeing all these beautiful, happy girls and I’m miserable and take it out on the bike, pushing it, pushing it harder, as fast as I can go, maybe I will forget but I won’t, I’ll never forget that I’m alone. Alone in this place where everyone worships money and power and I worship beautiful girls, thinking only they can save me, only they can help me. Only I can help myself, but I don’t want to hear that, because it’s also true that someone fun and engaging and beautiful could at least help me a little bit getting out of this mess I got myself into. I don’t even know how I got here. But it’s really-really bad and I need someone I can at least touch and talk to or I’ll really-really go crazy.

You moved on and I stayed. You moved on to better lives, better partners, more meaningful relationships and I stayed. I stayed here, where I always was, the clown, the entertainer, the joke that I am, waiting to cheer up others, but everyone moved on. I am still here, where I always stood, alone, battered, and broken. I miss your kindness, your love, your care. I miss the mornings with you, the emotional spark that we had, the moments of joy and understanding. I miss calling you all up, getting a message from you, getting love letters and everyday love-poems, the ones we play that only when we look back do we realise what an intricate poem of love it was. I miss those rhythms, those rhymes. I miss the bond we had, the mornings we got up late or rushed to work, the bewildering sex we had, seeing my postcard on your walls, seeing my mark in your lives. It’s all gone now. All of it, the postcards, the small marks. You moved on, and I stayed. I can’t move, I don’t want to move. I’m tired and battered and I’ve had enough. I’m lonely, after all these years of love and care, I’m alone again.