The Shape of a Name on the Tongue

In the quiet aftermath of your departure, a profound solitude has become my only confidant. It is the curse of the inward-turning soul to find itself in a silent chamber when the world outside feels too loud for its grief. The fear of judgment builds walls where there should be bridges, and I am left to navigate this vast emptiness alone.

My mind has become a courtroom where I am the sole defendant, replaying every moment, searching for the flaw in my being that caused this schism. I prosecute myself with the ghosts of past conversations, sentencing myself to a lifetime of what-ifs. Yet, the philosopher in me whispers a truth that is simpler and more brutal: your departure was its own reason. It was a current in the river of life that had to flow away, and I was merely standing on the bank.

This truth has left me afraid of the shoreline, wary of letting anyone near. To hold myself together is a constant, failing effort against the gravity of this loss. There is no joy, only the hollow echo of what was. The certainty that you can never be mine is not a thought, but a physical state an ache in the architecture of my soul. I wish to cry, but the tears are trapped behind a dam of trauma so immense it feels eternal.

Perhaps you have forgotten the shape of my name on your tongue, or the specific warmth that bloomed when our hands met. But for me, these memories are not memories; they are relics. They are the sacred texts of a religion with only one believer. I still feel the warmth of your skin as a phantom limb, a presence defined by its absolute absence.

You knew the depth of my love, and I will stand by this truth until the end of time: no one will ever love you as I did. This is not a challenge, but a statement of fact, as plain and irrevocable as the sunrise. It is why I need you, not a facsimile, not an improvement.

“The universe could offer me a constellation, but I would still yearn for my one lost star.”

And here, in this desolation, a strange and quiet truth reveals itself. There is a terrible beauty in a love that has been returned to its source. Before, our love was a shared territory, susceptible to moods and misunderstandings. Now, it is entirely mine. It is a pure, incorruptible essence that resides within me. No one can touch it, no one can tarnish it, and you yourself can no longer alter it. In losing you, I have taken sole ownership of the love I held for you. It is a devastating and sacred form of possession.

Even so, I wish for your happiness. It is the final, purest expression of this love that it desires your light, even if I must remain in the shadow. I am grateful for the brief intersection of our paths, a gift from existence I never felt I deserved.

But what does a philosopher do with a simple, aching truth? I miss you, VD.

Some nights, I lie in the dark and watch the fan spin its ceaseless circles on the ceiling. It is a perfect metaphor for my mind: always moving, yet arriving nowhere new. Time passes, a song plays, and I am trapped in the amber of the past. Four months. An eternity and a heartbeat. I imagine you are more beautiful than ever, which seems impossible.

I know these words would only be a burden to you, so they will remain here, in the silence. They are for me. A testament that what we had what I had was real.

“You were the best thing that ever happened to the man I was.”

There is work to be done, a purpose to be carved out of this pain. So I will live. But should this life end sooner than I plan, let my last truth be known. It is you. Along with the primal loves of family, there is you. The axis on which my world turned.

I am yours. I will always be yours. I miss you. I love you.