Yes, I miss you too. No, it doesn't mean I want to see you again. But, yes, I still love you. I feel the truth of it like raindrops on my skin. Not those which fall as the fine drizzle you so like, mind you, but the kind which descends as a violent, destructive monsoon deluge.
No, I do not hate you. But, yes, a burning anger still does consume me from time to time, and, no, it is probably not going away completely anytime soon.
Yes, I am okay. I am trying to be. Every. Fucking. Day.
No, you are not a bad person. But, yes, you treated me badly. You wounded me in a place where I have been injured by others before you; dug your nails into old scars and scraped the skin until they bled again, until the pain was too scathing to hide under a pretense of nonchalance.
Yes, I cried over you. I did so again just moments ago, in the darkness of the movie house, as I sat between two couples who paid more attention to each other than to the film. No, I did not wish we were still together, but yes, I missed you and thought it would have been great if I saw the movie with you. Parts of it reminded me of you and of us, of our conversations that spanned thousands of Facebook messages and hours on the phone. The talk we had over soft tacos, beer, and cigarettes and the words we said in bed, merely in murmurs.
No, I don't want to want you anymore, but, yes, I still do, and I guess that's what hurts me most, because, no, I do not need you.
Yes, I still do want you. But no, because, fuck you, this is pointless.
And you. And I. And we, especially.
Without question, a yes: we are over, oui.
