I skip along the surface of this because it’s covering serious heartbreak for me, but I miss LP like I miss another part of me.

He is another part of me . . . and he is my favorite parts of me, coupled with my least favorite parts.  It all started so well and ended so terribly. And frequently.

But I remember him fondly, even though he’s still sort of here.

I should be getting ready for brunch with my friend W, but I am sitting in my room post-shower writing this because I miss LP and all of his insanity.  I know it’s coming up on two years since we met . . . sometime mid-February 2009. I cannot believe it’s been two years, like I cannot believe we’re still exchanging infrequent texts. There is still passion between us, from afar.  Were we living in a different age, we would be sending each other long, elegant letters, that would be as much of an expression of who we are as an expression of the other. The reality is that we have always been too similar for it to be sustainable.  It’s not easy or healthy to love someone so much like yourself.

But . . .

I have very happy memories of him.  Of his handsome face. Of his tortured spirit.

Though it began with such promise and ended with such failure, I have lovely memories of a man who exists in this world, who could have loved me and himself enough to make it work.

It is never really over between us.  Technically, we never broke up.  Technically, we are still together. I do think that fact helps sustain him through long, dark nights. I am here for him to the degree I am because it is the most loving thing I can do for him.  I am not waiting for him, I am living my life, but I am still in his world, still reaching out to him, still supporting him, still letting him know that he’s the wonderful man I know him to be.

At times, he reaches back in interesting ways.  He asks me out, he makes plans, he makes promises.  He does not follow through.  He can’t . . . not really.  He’s barely surviving work, life, family at the same time he’s battling within his own brain.

It’s not personal to me.  It’s about him.

So he exists for me, but as a series of lovely memories.