Hope is a tiny flower growing in my heart.

It has been a month and 5 days since we last talked, and quite honestly, I wish I could stop counting. It no longer feels like I am winning, rather, it feels like I'm still losing every time I raise my hands and point at my fingertips. Counting reminds me how I cannot completely move on from you. It makes me hate myself for being so pathetic. It takes me back to the heart of my decision, of my avoidance, and of my slowly-but-surely progress of forgetting you. 

Back then, I wanted you to feel the pain of losing someone, to experience  the gnawing suffering of liking someone who doesn't give a shit, and to really understand what I went through for you. I wanted you to miss me. I wanted you to want me, to be called 'the one that got away', and to be the best girl you never had. I wanted you to lose time in imagining the what-ifs. 

I wanted you to regret that you let me go. 

However, I realized that things have changed (again). This time, I want and need to forgive you and more importantly, to forgive myself. I realized that I can't wholly go on with my life if I keep on wishing for things that will never happen. I long to fully accept the fact that you will never miss me as much as I miss you, or even wonder about you and me. 

I still have a long way to go. Though I choose loneliness to keep me company for now, rest assure that one day, I will embrace happiness with open arms. One day, I won't dwell on counting the days anymore. One day, we'll meet again, and I will smile at you.  

Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close

--

Source: http://www.panhala.net/archive/sonnet_xvii.html