Truths of Old

Holding the other half last night - such mixed emotions. wondering, perhaps if I should savour moments like those, because they may be our last. I wonder if she can sense it too? And I wish I could say, with honesty, that it's not you, it's me - but at the end of the day anyone who says that is lying. It's not you, it's you getting to me - okay, I admit it, it's you, not me. Because we're all innately selfish - and it has nothing for a talent with perverting the true meanings of words. Driving home today, I passed a girl running, and wondered again what I really want in another half, in someone to spend a lifetime with (as opposed to who I'd settle for, see previous entries). She was running in the early hours of the morning, and that captured my interest somehow. You know the type, large-ish frame, slightly rugged about the shoulders, yet clearly feminine - and not in a stick-thin willowy way - curvy enough, I suppose. But also feminine in mindset - because that's really what femininity is, isn't it? The long-ish braided pony tail, slightly in contrast to the boyish running-man facade. A rogue-ish sense of fun, without objection to gently poking fun at someone, but with the humour and good sense to do it good-naturedly, and never carry it so far as to become hurtful. A brilliant mind, and a brilliant sense of humour. A little self-centredness, mixed in with a generous helping of patience and readiness to help others. An easy-going laugh, and the occasional giggle. A complete sense of freedom to be whoever she is, never being self-consciously on public display - even when she is. A whimsical little smile, and wink. A simple, pure inner-beauty. But above all, Grace, and graciousness. Someone like You. I recall you asking me how I knew it was you, and not just someone like you. Don't you see, silly, that it could never be someone like you, because I was describing you? And I still am, years later. It can never be someone like you, because there is nobody else out there, like you. Because I wasn't speaking about someone "like you" (which is hard enough to come by in real life), but someone "exactly like you". Someone who could be beautiful, turning around to look back in the car with her hair in a shambles, because of the compassion and concern in her eyes, along with a certain wistfulness. Someone who could be beautiful wandering almost at random through a city, and offering to take my jacket off my shoulder. Someone who could be beautiful exploding girlishly in mirth over a stuffed teddy-bear-in-a-box, minus the box of course. Someone who was everything to me, just sitting on the steps of the uni brooding in the night.
Is it wrong for me to still remember so much, in such detail? To remember someone somehow eating chicken rice with her thumb swathed in a bandage - like it was yesterday, and not a decade ago? To remember you standing on the opposite train platform a lifetime ago in school uniform. You, by candlelight playing pretend-games with a bottle of clear water, with me. You "using" me, or rather my voice, on tape for an assignment - but asking permission first - not such a big deal? It was the way you asked. Unpresumptiously, but clearly asking. With an unspoken, but yet clearly articulated "please".
The way thoughts and emotions clearly swam in your head, betrayed through your eyes, and those eyebrows.
That smile, that wink, that twinkle in the eye. That rapier wit.
I miss you so much. I thought it would have gone away by now. Is it because I'm with someone who's almost the opposite of you in every way, that I'm reminded of your absence? Or is it simply because I miss you. I hope you're still the way you were, and that you're gracing the life of whoever you're with right now.