After All...

I need you to stop. Or I need myself to stop. Either one, whichever it is that came first. Whatever, just. Stop.  This loopty loop thing I always do when I find myself ousted. Be it spending my night alone knowing no one will come knocking the way you used to. Be it the fact that everywhere I go, I see all this love, all this affection. Or even the fact that the longer I people watch, the more happy, hand-holding couples I have to take in and smile at. It's bad enough that I've watched all these movies and named them my best friends, as if I could somehow relate to them one way or another. What's worse is that as if by cue, whenever something super lovey dovey happens, my tear machine magically works, causing waterworks to run down my cheek like waterfalls. 

By the way, I've lost count the amount of love songs I have listened to since. I've lost count of the many sad ones that I've played so many times I have learnt the lyrics by listening alone. What's funnier is the fact that somehow, every single one of these songs interestingly enough relate to me and my loss. Look at me, I speak of this as if I speak of a death, you know, one where I've watched the coffin get lowered into the ground as I still claw the very earth. Clenching, holding, grasping every single inch I can lay my fingers on. Each time I loosen the hold on one of them, I come running back, like a lost kid to his mother. Quite frankly, I cry. I cry thinking about it. I talk about it, or, well, it seems, I try to; thinking it'd make me feel better somehow. I always say I feel better, but deep down, nothing has changed. After all this time, nothing had really changed, I don't think. Each time I feel dejected, or when I get the red flag, I go back to you. The memory of you, the feelings still burnt fresh in my mind. Every moment including A and Z with everything in between. After all these years, you've still become my safety blanket. The same topic I find myself bringing up once every blue moon, or, once every haircut. 

Trust me, I am not proud of that frequency because we all know just how many times I have my hair cut. But I can't help it. You've always been that safety blanket, that one that I the salty contents of my tear bear. But I need you to stop. I don't know how, but just, somehow, stop? I need to stop crying over the spilled milk that is you. Rancid it has already become, yet the tears still flow. So, I plead, quit running through my thoughts. Quit being that one special one, that coffin-six-feet-under. Quit being the one. Cause I wanna stop crying, I really do. Sides, I'm sure those ears are sick of the tears and those shoulders tired from the heavy lifting.