u/Mental-Soup5658

I am trying to quit ‘wanting.’
I’ve told myself, “I have what I need and that is enough.” It works, it does, but only for a short while. Eventually, I come back to it.
Always, I come back to it.

It is not the wanting, anyway, it is how quickly it can turn into needing. I want to tell you what it felt like when I touched you. When you touched me, your fingertips said things your mouth cannot. I want to tell you what I heard them say.
I need to tell you.

It feels wrong to keep it to myself, but if I told you how bad I want you, I’d need you to say you want me too.

Not knowing enough is a much softer suffering than knowing too much.

All I have is a whisper of a memory, one that is too quiet to place, but loud enough to force its existence into remembrance. Somedays I get close enough to grab it. I pause on each frame and sift through its contents. For a moment, I could feel my whole body fighting for an answer, but the sweat dancing down my face has caused a panic. Tears that were once eager to taste freedom have retreated behind bloodshot eyes. I cannot cry like I used to. I cannot cry at all. I am searching for traces of myself. Traces of you. Proof that we were there.
In a memory of love, as soft and blurred as this, it is impossible to make out faces, not even my own.
Exhausted, I sit with it. I stare at it. It breathes so softly between two shaking hands. I watch it lose its hope as I ask, “Did you know me? Did you belong to me? Did I belong to you?”

I hear it whisper, “Yes.”
And then, “No.”

And then silence.

I’ve lost it again.