I feel envy, not in your pain, but in your ability to express.
I find myself returning day after day, to read your words. Not because I’m a nosey busy body and want to read what happened next. I read because your words, how you express yourself, hurts. I feel the pain, the sorrow, the anguish, and then at times I also get a glimpse of the joy you must have felt when times were good with her.
I don’t feel envy at the love you shared. I don’t feel jealousy that you had someone who could give you so much more than I could in just the time you had with her. I may sound presumptuous in thinking I could give you anything since we’ve never met and the only thing I know about you is what you write on wordpress. But wordpress has introduced you to me, to the heart of you. Has made me aware of your existence. Has shown me that out there somewhere is a man who would respect the love of a woman when given the chance.
Pain lets us know we are alive. I sometimes think I’d rather feel the pain than feel nothing at all, but when the pain seers across my heart, I find myself wishing I’d feel nothing at all.
As I read, as you express yourself, pain seers across my heart, and sometimes, sometimes, I wish I could reach out and touch you just once, just once with a soothing touch, to see if maybe for one moment I could help you feel something else other than the pain you feel.