cinnamon sugar on my thumb

You made me happy.

No doubt about it. Whatever we had, whatever we were--to each other, to the rest of the world--it made me happy. It's difficult for me to completely and accurately recall a time before that when I was that happy, when there was joy that unadulterated. Smiles that started in my hara and grew upwards through my torso until they blossomed on my face, blooms that harbored more beauty upon closer inspection; blood rushing to my cheeks like the slight blush on a rose's petals--it's been a while before and since that kind of reaction has surfaced, let alone at the mention of your name (these days).

But I was happy then.

Today I am content. I'm caught up in the gales of a busy life, a hopeful glance at what my choice in higher education might mean for my future. I have assignments, I have rehearsals, I have small auditions, I have friends to drink and make merry with (and, for a time, a way to let out certain types of frustration, although every such session has ended with me even more frustrated than before). I have a life, a real life, to work on and look forward to; I have everything I've needed to keep me busy and distracted.

I do miss it. I liked feeling that way. Now all those memories are looked upon, in retrospect, in sadness and bitterness. Sadly, I think I partially achieved my goal of repressing any memory of you, because there are times where I know we interacted--conversations, sharing--but I genuinely cannot recall a single detail of those events. I only remember the things I felt at the time, and even some of those feelings are naught but loose, frayed threads--signs of a garment that only needs a few tugs of one string before it completely unravels.

I miss you in a way that knows I cannot have you back.

I can only hope that one day, the universe will let me feel that happiness again with someone else, and then some.