Few Lost Thoughts in My Soup

It's tragic really.
I can't stop wanting to be with him even though he hurts me.
All I can really think is, maybe if I was good enough, we could have these last couple months be happy. It's not that long, and he means a lot to me. I want to have at least a happy end, even though what I think would be happy would be to have him forever.
But is that really true?
No.
Because even though I say that's what I want, I know I won't be happy, because he won't be happy. I won't be enough, ever. I'm not right, as he says.
I know he says I am, but how can I be enough if he doesn't want me and is in love with someone else, even publicly?
Does he know how much that hurts me to read, to find a lie like that, publicly instead of privately?
For everyone to see.
I was coming to terms with it ending, the little glimmer of happiness as I knew the months would speed by and I would be alone again. In a month or so after his leaving, he would find another woman, probably of the red head persuasion, and she would fill the spot in his bed next to him, not I.
A space that I could never completely fill, no matter how much I tossed, turned, and spread.
And I would be alone. Faced with the task of filling my own bed, and stemming my leaking heart, while he, as is his way, felt nothing, no remorse at leaving me behind so broken. He would stay patched together, as it were, finding the new band-aid to his hopelessly torn asunder heart.
I would find myself again, I knew it.
A small warmth was managed in my fingertips amongst the approaching cold. A small gathering of friends, a man who knew the words to say. He appreciated me and saw me as a kind and caring being. And so the title of my memoirs came to me through our conversation: "Mistakes like Me."
Because he made the mistake, I suppose, of staying with me, of getting with me, or of picking me but not keeping me. Which, I can not be sure. I laughed because maybe someday I might actually write memoirs, if they mean anything in the future.
An image poured into my brain from some other planet. Maybe so many hours at the pool had influenced it, but I saw my body, streamlined and glistening, a snapshot in the blue sparkling water. The power behind my arms and lengths, a strength I greatly missed. Something I wanted back.
I had a passion for life, and I knew it. I just had to regain it in moments like these, when I felt like the only person who cared for me was letting me down. In reality, he shouldn't be so important, and I had good friends who could nurture me back to health. But in truth, I had thought I had found someone who could truly see me.
The intimacy of a relationship is such a wonderful thing. You feel a connection unlike anything else. You feel as if someone sees you for all your good and wishes (for the moment) never to be parted from you. To stay in your life as long as you will let them. That is why it is such a tragedy to break apart. A travesty, if you will. To be ripped apart from what you perceived as such joy, such love, such closeness is completely gone. The one driving force that understood you and saw you for all that you were has not an inch of faith.
And so you must find the faith for yourself, and hope that someday, someone will see that in your eyes and really never, ever part from you again.