The Hardest Part

I still see you sometimes; around town. I try to avoid you, too. I’m nothing; nobody. I see you in Walmart, I’ve learned to turn the other way before I have a chance to look into your eyes…
That’s the hard part.
I miss your beautiful eyes. Those beautiful honey-golden brown eyes.
I pass you on the street, I’ve learned to quicken my pace; just get past you and move on… down the sidewalk, anyway..
That’s the hard part.
I miss walking through downtown, holding hands Those soft hands with just the fingertips rough and calloused from your many years of playing guitar.
I see you in the mall, hanging out with friends, and I get jealous. But I leave anyway; I know better than to watch.
That’s another hard part.
I miss having friends. Those friends used to be my friends, too.
I saw you today; you were at the park… with her. You were cuddled close together under a tree on a blanket.
What?
That’s not like you… it’s too cliché.
You were lying mostly on top of her. She had one hand around your neck pulling you ever deeper into a kiss that looked too good to be true, and the other wrapped around your waist moving slowly upwards, exposing a tiny bit of pale, yet tattooed skin.
You had one hand behind her head, protecting it from the rough ground hidden by the blanket, and the other lying softly against her stomach, rubbing small circles in the soft flesh with your thumb.
I knew I shouldn’t have been watching; it’s never good to watch, that’s why I don’t do it.
But I did today, and I wish I hadn’t.
I was sitting on a bench a several yards away, but I could still hear what was said.
Amidst the slightly wet sounds of kissing and tiny soft sighs of contentment and pleasure, you said it.
You used to say it to me, before I fucked everything up.
You used to tell me all the time. You’d call me up randomly just to say it. You’d send me a letter, though I saw you every day, and it would be written there on the paper when I opened the envelope.
You’d tell me before we made love, and you’d tell me while we made love, and you would tell me after we made love.
You would tell me when we greeted each other for the first time that day, and you’d tell me when we parted ways and said goodbye.
Except, at the end, you never said goodbye… and you never said “it” either.

You were kissing softly and seemed perfectly comfortable and content with each other. You pulled back a moment to say, ever so softly, “I love you.”
That’s the hard part. I miss the way you used to tell me, “I love you, Gee,” and then I’d giggle, and respond, “I love you, too, Frankie, so fucking much.”
That was before I got addicted to drugs.
That was before I let alcohol take over my life.
That was before, when in a drunken rage, I hit you for the first and last time. And you left without a word.
That was before I killed myself, and I never saw you through living eyes again.
I can’t speak to you. I can’t touch you… I can’t ever be with you.
And that’s the hardest part.