How very Charlie.

I wrote this on Thursday during my lunch break in work. Just trying to get my thoughts on paper, but it's pretty damn hard. I'm not too sure if I should even post this, but I'm trying self-therapy, and right now I'd try anything.

There are so many attachments that make a break up so difficult to deal with. Aside from the obvious loss of the other person, you have to accept that they don't want you any more. Which leads a paranoid person like me, who over-thinks things, to question every little detail. Did I say something wrong? Did I do something to agitate her? Was it something I wore one day, or how I wore my hair once? What was it that sparked it all off?
I have to accept that I can't text her whenever I feel like it. I won't get unexpected, cute texts from her during work. I don't get to kiss her, hold her hand, gaze at her, play with her hair, or any of those things.
We won't sit on her bed playing guitar and singing. We won't discuss books, authors or characters. We won't talk about our separate little oddities, our mini-obsessions, or compare ourselves to a fictional character.
There were so many things I never got to tell you. Like how I love the curve of your neck, and the taste of your mouth, and how you mess up my hair. And how you tease me and wind me up. And how you're the only person I've ever held eye-contact with for longer than ten seconds and not been petrified. I love your eyes. I love the way you look at me. Looked at me. No-one's ever looked at me like that before.
We had plans. All sorts of things we were going to do. Go to your formal together, you in a suit, me in a dress. Road trips. Getting drunk. Writing novels and articles. Walking on the beach. I was in the middle of making you a proper, meaningful mix CD, handmade cover and all.
I wanted to read books with you, do crosswords and Sudoku with you, drink coffee with you, share cigarettes with you, discuss books - plots, characters and endings - with you. I wanted to go for walks with you, and take our dogs with us.
I wanted to treat you so well, love you properly, take care of you, hold you so close, guard your heart, protect you from the world.
But, it wasn't to be.
Now I won't get to spend my twenty-first birthday with you, or get you to be the first to read my novel, or get to send you little surprise gifts, or make you tea, or tell you I love you.

I hope [she] does all of these things for you. I hope she makes you happy, makes you truly, genuinely smile. I hope she treats you right. Most of all, I hope she appreciates you, because God knows I wish you were mine.

I still love you.
Unwelcome Sound. xx