Less than half

I keep catching myself trying to reach for you and it hurts just as much each time I force my hand to return to my side- my knuckles are white with restraint against something only I can see. I want you with just less than half of the fibre of my being- the logical side of me causing the sway in the (hopefully) less painful direction. The intensity of this fraction, however, is more than I would think I could handle and the dissonance created in part by you and in part by my overwhelming fear is the reason I can't hear myself think sometimes. I can't discern whether it'd be cruel to partially love you because I feel like that was all that you were ever capable of towards me- besides that I'm not ever sure I could affect you because I have nothing to go on telling me whether or not you're even able to make yourself emotionally vulnerable to me because of an overexposure to your words in the brief period of our shared infatuation. It was nothing more, nothing less than that: infatuation. I still crave understanding in a way that I've only ever been satisfied by you but you never seemed to understand my need for reassurance in the most practical senses- you fulfilled my fourth and fifth tiers of need, never paying heed to the first three. We were a beautiful skyscraper without a foundation- I miss you,
But I don't miss being with you.