Thoughts from an insomniac

In many ways he was like poetry.
He was full of contradictions,
Beauty and shallowness
Elegance and crass indifference
Something else too...
His depth was unmeasurable
It depended almost entirely upon the mood he was in

And yet there was something fundamentally false about him.

It isn't that he lied to me...
I rather expect that from the men I love.
I feel like he lies to many women,
He tells them that he loves them completely
And wants to be with them forever,
All the while waiting for something more spectacular than what's before him

And even though there is still some basic part of me that craves him
I'd rather be alone than lied to.
I don't particularly feel like someone who is pining away
Weeping over something lost and best forgotten
But I don't feel overly "over it" either.
Maybe that's what happens when the person for whom you would have moved the stars
Throws you away like so much trash.

I don't want to be with him.
Not now, after so much time passed in silence
Not after seeing how easy it was for him replace me
But sometimes I think about him with a certain tenderness
The reasons for which I can't completely name.

It isn't that I want him back
It's that I want to know that somewhere,
In the furthest recesses of his inconstant heart
That my presence in his life
And my absence now
Has affected him.