I sometimes, many times, wonder about the beginning, when I was little. Me and her, unaware of each other’s existence.
Could we imagine we would meet one day? I don’t think so. Of course not! But now it seems impossible for it to have happened otherwise, at least for me.
How else could I have met love and pain if not like this, through her?
If things did work out any other way, I would still be “Rick” but not “The Lone Beach Walker”. Probably, I couldn’t even find a single word to write on love, not a single worthy thought for you to eagerly read.
A crushed heart now spilling past memories is far more valuable than having it, still, virginally intact but hollow.
Oh… those memories I vacantly recall only so I can finally smile again; picturing her eyes without fearing the inevitable tears that’ll come along, running down mine.
How much would I give to have this hurt stab me once more? Teach me, through the same silent bus rides and vulnerable drunk glances, what it feels to long like that; just so I could be there, once again, with her.
Am I too insane, yearning for the same old life she stole from me, a life where I could be who I am not anymore?