I have been afraid.
The day it all came crashing down, I was forced to step back and to try to take a more objective look at the situation—the control of which had long since escaped my grasp.
I remembered, then, what it was like when this whole thing began. How you texted me constantly. Called every chance you got—after shows, in airports, from the store. And if I took too long to respond, you were quick to ask "Where'd you go?" Or to accuse, "You left me!"
At the time, I took it in stride. I did not know what to make of the situation, or of you. I tried to not read too much into it, not to take it too seriously. Especially when you said things like "I'm a little obsessed…" Or a million other little bits of things you said—things I wanted to believe you meant, and would not allow myself to.
But your attentions made me smile in spite of myself—made my heart laugh.
And sitting at my desk that day, staring dully at my silent phone, I found myself wondering how we got from there to here. From you pursuing me, to me becoming this pathetic, distracted, useless thing. From me thinking your "obsession" was cute and silly, to me being hurt and saddened that you no longer feel the same. I sat there, wishing that you would text, or call, or otherwise contact me in some way…
And I wondered how you did it. How or where you had found the strength and self-control to not contact me. Where was that strength and self-control in you before?
And all I could think was that none of it mattered. It didn't matter what was Before. Because the moment we were in was Now and not in Before. And in this moment, Now, there was me, who could not resist contacting you—always, always telling myself that this time would be the last time—and there was you, who hadn't slipped up once; had not once been the first to break down and reach for me, needing to know I was still there.
It occurred to me, then, that it simply is not possible that you feel the same about me as I do you. If you did, you would not be able to resist. If you did, you would long for me. If you did, no other's touch would satisfy you. If you did, your decision would already be made…
"And so", I thought, "I will be the one to end it." I would do what you could not. I would be the one to do the right thing—to take back control, and to end this madness. I would be the one to extinguish Hope. I would be the one to let go...
And so I told you to forget you ever knew me.
And why not? It should be easy enough. You are mostly there already—only reminded of me now and then because I insist on inserting myself into your life; because I refuse to leave you in peace.
But there will be peace now.
I clung to you because I was afraid that if I let go you would forget me—never realizing that it was not my battle to fight, and therefore one I could not win.
Original post date: 12.22.2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
It's Getting Better All The Time
It was after the fourth beer that it hit me. I went outside for a smoke, and there was it was: a beautiful, dark, shiny Harley—just sitting there.
Even in the dim light, I could see that it wasn't exactly like your bike. But the color was close. Close enough to tear me out of the present and back into thoughts of you.
And it's not that it's unusual for a bike to be sitting at that bar. In fact, for a Saturday night, the biker population at The Pony was rather sparse. And maybe that's why that bike sitting there struck me the way it did. There were only two others in the lot, and this bike was off all by itself. It was also the only Harley. And between the color, and the light, for a moment—just a moment—I imagined that it was yours. That you were inside somewhere. Laughing. Having fun. Oblivious.
The thought made me laugh aloud in a bitter sort of way, and I took a picture and I sent it to you...
I went to my Jeep, then, and I laid down in the back. I was too drunk to drive, and not drunk enough to get you off my mind.
My mind is odd when it comes to thinking of you. There's a dam that can hold it back most times, but once one tiny thing catches that latch, and opens that gate, there is no stopping the torrent...
Laying there in the dark, I wanted to talk to you so badly. I don't even know what I would have said if I’d had you on the line.
For several long minutes, I was angry. And I wanted to text you again, and tell you not to do this to anyone else.
I am not sure, now, exactly what it was I thought you had "done" to me. Because in the clear, sober light of day, I recognize that my feelings are my own—that they are solely my own creation and responsibility. And as much as I might like to think so when I'm drunk, you didn't do anything to make me feel the way I do about you. Yes, the predisposition for these feelings was there, and you certainly did nothing to dissuade them (and, in fact, could even be said to have encouraged them). But you did not create them. I did that all on my own. Me, and my gullibility. And the little girl inside of me that still wanted so badly to believe that fairytales really do exist...
But in that moment, cold and alone in my Jeep, it was not the clear, sober light of day. It was dark, and I was not sober, and I'd had an immensely taxing day. I was sad and melancholy, and I was rummaging through old memories, mourning the loss of some intangible thing—whatever it was I thought we had, I suppose.
And in the non-light of that Saturday night, I wanted to tell you to not do this to anyone else. And while I knew, even then, that it wasn't strictly your fault, I knew also that there were things you could have done differently—things that you should do differently if you ever find yourself in a similar situation again...
Helpless and dangerous. You said that once—that being emotionally attached to me was a helpless and dangerous feeling.
You have exhibited neither helplessness, nor indications of dangerous feelings.
I never sent you that second message. I fell asleep huddled under my down jacket, curled on the backseat of the Jeep.
And I keep poking the spot that hurts, and I'll keep on poking until it's numb. I'll poke until I can look at your picture, until I can hear your voice, until I can listen to your music, until I can sit in my Jeep, until I can stand the feel of my own hair against my face...
I'll poke until none of it pierces my heart anymore. Until all emotion is gone. Until it's like I never knew you at all...
It’s getting better all the time.
Original post date: 12.22.2008
Even in the dim light, I could see that it wasn't exactly like your bike. But the color was close. Close enough to tear me out of the present and back into thoughts of you.
And it's not that it's unusual for a bike to be sitting at that bar. In fact, for a Saturday night, the biker population at The Pony was rather sparse. And maybe that's why that bike sitting there struck me the way it did. There were only two others in the lot, and this bike was off all by itself. It was also the only Harley. And between the color, and the light, for a moment—just a moment—I imagined that it was yours. That you were inside somewhere. Laughing. Having fun. Oblivious.
The thought made me laugh aloud in a bitter sort of way, and I took a picture and I sent it to you...
I went to my Jeep, then, and I laid down in the back. I was too drunk to drive, and not drunk enough to get you off my mind.
My mind is odd when it comes to thinking of you. There's a dam that can hold it back most times, but once one tiny thing catches that latch, and opens that gate, there is no stopping the torrent...
Laying there in the dark, I wanted to talk to you so badly. I don't even know what I would have said if I’d had you on the line.
For several long minutes, I was angry. And I wanted to text you again, and tell you not to do this to anyone else.
I am not sure, now, exactly what it was I thought you had "done" to me. Because in the clear, sober light of day, I recognize that my feelings are my own—that they are solely my own creation and responsibility. And as much as I might like to think so when I'm drunk, you didn't do anything to make me feel the way I do about you. Yes, the predisposition for these feelings was there, and you certainly did nothing to dissuade them (and, in fact, could even be said to have encouraged them). But you did not create them. I did that all on my own. Me, and my gullibility. And the little girl inside of me that still wanted so badly to believe that fairytales really do exist...
But in that moment, cold and alone in my Jeep, it was not the clear, sober light of day. It was dark, and I was not sober, and I'd had an immensely taxing day. I was sad and melancholy, and I was rummaging through old memories, mourning the loss of some intangible thing—whatever it was I thought we had, I suppose.
And in the non-light of that Saturday night, I wanted to tell you to not do this to anyone else. And while I knew, even then, that it wasn't strictly your fault, I knew also that there were things you could have done differently—things that you should do differently if you ever find yourself in a similar situation again...
Helpless and dangerous. You said that once—that being emotionally attached to me was a helpless and dangerous feeling.
You have exhibited neither helplessness, nor indications of dangerous feelings.
I never sent you that second message. I fell asleep huddled under my down jacket, curled on the backseat of the Jeep.
And I keep poking the spot that hurts, and I'll keep on poking until it's numb. I'll poke until I can look at your picture, until I can hear your voice, until I can listen to your music, until I can sit in my Jeep, until I can stand the feel of my own hair against my face...
I'll poke until none of it pierces my heart anymore. Until all emotion is gone. Until it's like I never knew you at all...
It’s getting better all the time.
Original post date: 12.22.2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
As I Once Was, So Shall I Be
For whatever moments of doubt I have had (or will have again) regarding the genuineness of your professed "emotional attachment" to me, there were equally (and more) moments when I did believe.
Do you know that, for a long time, I kept an open journal entry titled "Reasons To Believe", and that whenever we'd have some bit of conversation, or whenever you would do something that seemed to indicate that I was unique to you, I recorded it in that journal entry?
It seems silly to me now. Childish even.
But what I think you maybe never quite understood was what I was up against. That you were asking me to believe that I was something special to you defied all logic. And not only my own logic. It defied the logic of every friend I confided in. Admittedly, we're talking small numbers here—maybe four individuals, total, who knew the whole story and not just vague snippets. But they were my friends. My close friends. People who knew me. The very people who knew better than any my true value. And yet, even they did not buy that you genuinely cared for me. And so I was fighting not only my own nagging sense of what seemed plausible, but the valued estimations of dear friends as well.
Only two things in the whole world stood in contradiction: your word; and my gut feeling that you were being honest.
And that gut feeling was easily maintained when we were in regular contact. There was constant reinforcement. Every time we spoke I was reassured all over again that whatever it was you felt for me was real, and that you had not caught me up in some malicious game.
But the events of the last two months have made that faith difficult to hold onto. And yet you have seemed surprised—even injured—any time I have expressed skepticism or cynicism. And I can't help but wonder what conclusions anyone would have drawn in my shoes.
We each came back from New Mexico, and I knew I had let my emotions get too involved. I think I might have been alright if I had let the whole thing go then. I remember thinking one evening later that maybe I could scare you off. That maybe if I told you that I was getting in over my head, that you would realize it wasn't a game for me anymore. And that if it was a game for you, you would fall silent and just quietly slip away. And I wanted that to happen, if that was how you felt.
So I gathered liquid courage, and I told you just how much you really got to me—that you could really hurt me. But you did not fall silent, and you did not slip away...
At least, not then.
For me, the confusion came only later. Once you did fall silent. And of course, I knew you said you needed to put some distance between us. And I understood that. But I hadn't expected it to be so easy for you, when it was so hard for me. And even when I asked you how and why it was so easy for you, my beseeching was met with utter silence. There was so much that you left unanswered—even harmless little things. Things that a perfect stranger (let a lone a friend) would have graced with a reply.
Please, tell me you can understand how I might be confused. How it might be easy for me to doubt your intentions after all that has transpired. I do not want you to remember me as a lunatic...
I think, now, that we really are at goodbye.
And if so, please, please, do not remember me this way.
Remember the moaning mummy in Taco Bell, or remember us peeking at one other over the cradle of our arms—shy and uncertain. Or remember how I felt in your hands, or you in mine. Or searching for beer. Remember my jean jacket, or the view from behind, or a flask of vodka in a dry town. Or my smile, or the sunlight on my hair, or your fingers in my hair. Remember anything—anything at all. But do not remember me like this.
It is not who I am. It is not who I was. It is not who I will stay.
I am beautiful, and I am smart. I am happy, and I have my head on straight. I am charming, and lively, and I have entertained the intellects and sensibilities of Nobel, Field and Turing Award winners. I am a positive, stable force in the chaos of this universe, and people remember me because I touch their lives for the better and I leave something good in my wake.
And some day very soon, I will remember these things, and I will be who I am again.
I hope you can forgive me. And that someday you have the opportunity to see me as I should be. And that it washes away all recollection of ugliness...
Original date of composition: 12.17.2008
Do you know that, for a long time, I kept an open journal entry titled "Reasons To Believe", and that whenever we'd have some bit of conversation, or whenever you would do something that seemed to indicate that I was unique to you, I recorded it in that journal entry?
It seems silly to me now. Childish even.
But what I think you maybe never quite understood was what I was up against. That you were asking me to believe that I was something special to you defied all logic. And not only my own logic. It defied the logic of every friend I confided in. Admittedly, we're talking small numbers here—maybe four individuals, total, who knew the whole story and not just vague snippets. But they were my friends. My close friends. People who knew me. The very people who knew better than any my true value. And yet, even they did not buy that you genuinely cared for me. And so I was fighting not only my own nagging sense of what seemed plausible, but the valued estimations of dear friends as well.
Only two things in the whole world stood in contradiction: your word; and my gut feeling that you were being honest.
And that gut feeling was easily maintained when we were in regular contact. There was constant reinforcement. Every time we spoke I was reassured all over again that whatever it was you felt for me was real, and that you had not caught me up in some malicious game.
But the events of the last two months have made that faith difficult to hold onto. And yet you have seemed surprised—even injured—any time I have expressed skepticism or cynicism. And I can't help but wonder what conclusions anyone would have drawn in my shoes.
We each came back from New Mexico, and I knew I had let my emotions get too involved. I think I might have been alright if I had let the whole thing go then. I remember thinking one evening later that maybe I could scare you off. That maybe if I told you that I was getting in over my head, that you would realize it wasn't a game for me anymore. And that if it was a game for you, you would fall silent and just quietly slip away. And I wanted that to happen, if that was how you felt.
So I gathered liquid courage, and I told you just how much you really got to me—that you could really hurt me. But you did not fall silent, and you did not slip away...
At least, not then.
For me, the confusion came only later. Once you did fall silent. And of course, I knew you said you needed to put some distance between us. And I understood that. But I hadn't expected it to be so easy for you, when it was so hard for me. And even when I asked you how and why it was so easy for you, my beseeching was met with utter silence. There was so much that you left unanswered—even harmless little things. Things that a perfect stranger (let a lone a friend) would have graced with a reply.
Please, tell me you can understand how I might be confused. How it might be easy for me to doubt your intentions after all that has transpired. I do not want you to remember me as a lunatic...
I think, now, that we really are at goodbye.
And if so, please, please, do not remember me this way.
Remember the moaning mummy in Taco Bell, or remember us peeking at one other over the cradle of our arms—shy and uncertain. Or remember how I felt in your hands, or you in mine. Or searching for beer. Remember my jean jacket, or the view from behind, or a flask of vodka in a dry town. Or my smile, or the sunlight on my hair, or your fingers in my hair. Remember anything—anything at all. But do not remember me like this.
It is not who I am. It is not who I was. It is not who I will stay.
I am beautiful, and I am smart. I am happy, and I have my head on straight. I am charming, and lively, and I have entertained the intellects and sensibilities of Nobel, Field and Turing Award winners. I am a positive, stable force in the chaos of this universe, and people remember me because I touch their lives for the better and I leave something good in my wake.
And some day very soon, I will remember these things, and I will be who I am again.
I hope you can forgive me. And that someday you have the opportunity to see me as I should be. And that it washes away all recollection of ugliness...
Original date of composition: 12.17.2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
It Cannot Have Been All Bad
I am not big on regretting things. Never have been. And that is not to say that I haven't made plenty of choices worthy of regretting. It is only to say that it seems counter-intuitive to me to do so. After all, it is all of the little moments, and all of the choices—mistakes or no—that have coalesced into the person I am today. And with a few minor exceptions, I like who that person is.
But when you are struggling with loss, or with anything that results in heartache, it is very easy to start down the path of wishing that things hadn't happened. "If this had never happened, if I had never met that person, or made that one decision that precipitated this result, I wouldn't be in this mess, feeling this way..."
And when all you want in that moment is for the hurt to stop, suddenly the idea of selective memory erase becomes very appealing.
But the truth is, the reason that you are hurting so badly is because you have lost something that was precious to you. And that means that there was a whole lot of good which preceded preciousness. Lots of laughs. Lots of beauty. Lots of joy. Lots of good-stuff-memories. All culminating in the great crescendo—a thing worth smiling about, worth treasuring, worth longing for. Worth hurting over...
And if you consider it carefully, from a platform outside of the present pain, would you really trade all of that good just to escape the despair of the current moment?
For me, that pendulum invariably comes to rest upon this reply: I would never trade it. Not for anything.
But when you are rapt in the eye of storm, and there is nothing but violent turbulence in each corner of the horizon, and the dust has yet to settle, it is utterly maddening to experience the tides of both desires at once—the push of wanting to forget/go back/change things, and the pull of wanting to hold on and treasure the past for what it was.
Stand with me through the storm. The dust will settle in time, and my desires will come to rest precisely where they should.
But when you are struggling with loss, or with anything that results in heartache, it is very easy to start down the path of wishing that things hadn't happened. "If this had never happened, if I had never met that person, or made that one decision that precipitated this result, I wouldn't be in this mess, feeling this way..."
And when all you want in that moment is for the hurt to stop, suddenly the idea of selective memory erase becomes very appealing.
But the truth is, the reason that you are hurting so badly is because you have lost something that was precious to you. And that means that there was a whole lot of good which preceded preciousness. Lots of laughs. Lots of beauty. Lots of joy. Lots of good-stuff-memories. All culminating in the great crescendo—a thing worth smiling about, worth treasuring, worth longing for. Worth hurting over...
And if you consider it carefully, from a platform outside of the present pain, would you really trade all of that good just to escape the despair of the current moment?
For me, that pendulum invariably comes to rest upon this reply: I would never trade it. Not for anything.
But when you are rapt in the eye of storm, and there is nothing but violent turbulence in each corner of the horizon, and the dust has yet to settle, it is utterly maddening to experience the tides of both desires at once—the push of wanting to forget/go back/change things, and the pull of wanting to hold on and treasure the past for what it was.
Stand with me through the storm. The dust will settle in time, and my desires will come to rest precisely where they should.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Stink Of Shit
Call me strange, but I've always liked the smell of horse-shit.
Now, hear me out.
In copious (or stale) amounts, horse-shit can stink the same as any other shit. But when it's fresh, it pretty much just smells like wet, slightly fermented hay.
And that reminds me of wide open spaces. It reminds me of time-to-ride. It reminds me of no fences, no walls. Of a wide, wide world out there to explore. Of freedom.
I smell fresh-(ish) horse-shit, and my ridin' boots are ready.
Now cow-shit (a.k.a. bull-shit), on the other hand, has always stunk to high heaven to me. Those fuckers don't just slightly digest their food—they have three stomachs! And by the time it makes it out the other end... Well, it smells like shit.
I have had this argument with people a number of times over the years—people who maintain that the two smell equally of shit. And on most days, I'd stand my ground and maintain my position.
But not today. Today I have had to rethink the whole “horse-shit versus bull-shit” controversy a bit.
You see, while I may swear up one side o’ the creek and down the other that horse-shit smells better than bull-shit, the history of my actions would suggest that my preferences otherwise.
Because, for a girl who hates the smell of bull-shit, I sure have been taken-in by it enough.
Here's to being true to one's own predilections, and learning to spot bull-shit when you smell it.
Now, hear me out.
In copious (or stale) amounts, horse-shit can stink the same as any other shit. But when it's fresh, it pretty much just smells like wet, slightly fermented hay.
And that reminds me of wide open spaces. It reminds me of time-to-ride. It reminds me of no fences, no walls. Of a wide, wide world out there to explore. Of freedom.
I smell fresh-(ish) horse-shit, and my ridin' boots are ready.
Now cow-shit (a.k.a. bull-shit), on the other hand, has always stunk to high heaven to me. Those fuckers don't just slightly digest their food—they have three stomachs! And by the time it makes it out the other end... Well, it smells like shit.
I have had this argument with people a number of times over the years—people who maintain that the two smell equally of shit. And on most days, I'd stand my ground and maintain my position.
But not today. Today I have had to rethink the whole “horse-shit versus bull-shit” controversy a bit.
You see, while I may swear up one side o’ the creek and down the other that horse-shit smells better than bull-shit, the history of my actions would suggest that my preferences otherwise.
Because, for a girl who hates the smell of bull-shit, I sure have been taken-in by it enough.
Here's to being true to one's own predilections, and learning to spot bull-shit when you smell it.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
I Wasn't Looking
I don't even know when I fell so hard for him.
It happened while I wasn't looking. It crept through cracks and tiny holes I never knew were there. He poured like water into my soul, one handful of scooped bath-water at a time, one head-nuzzle at a time. One touch, one caress, one I love you. One rose. One tear. And it was done. When I wasn't looking. When I didn't know...
And when he left, it blew me wide open.
It happened while I wasn't looking. It crept through cracks and tiny holes I never knew were there. He poured like water into my soul, one handful of scooped bath-water at a time, one head-nuzzle at a time. One touch, one caress, one I love you. One rose. One tear. And it was done. When I wasn't looking. When I didn't know...
And when he left, it blew me wide open.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Extinguished
I drove away from you, so much on my mind. It wasn't until I was nearly home that I wondered if I had the capacity to hurt you—to make your chest constrict and squeeze the air from your lungs, choking you on your own emotion—as you had me. Not that I want to hurt you, but in some small way it would ease my own pain to know that I could.
Maybe then I could breathe again.
I was so happy to see that light return to your eyes. To have you look at me and smile for no reason. Smile just to smile. Because you can. Because you can't help yourself.
That was the second birth. The ease, the light, the smile—it had left your face once. That was the first death. I remember the wall that slammed between us then. How distant we felt—the indifference. I thought it would never come back. No relationship has re-births. Once that initial exhilaration has fled, it it does not come back. Not ever.
And yet, it did. That was the second birth.
And tonight it died again. It was the second death. In a matter of seconds the light fled from your face, from your eyes.
Perhaps it died in mine first. You saw it go. I almost cried. You saw. The cushion of elation that I had been gliding on for the last few weeks deflated in an instant.
A poorly chosen topic. Incorrect interpretation of events. I read you wrong, it was so clear. And it hurt so much. Sitting across the table from you, I couldn't look at you. I couldn't breath. I couldn't smile. I was suddenly hollow...
I had been so sure I was right. So certain you had come to love me, to love us. Convinced that you didn't want to lose me.
And there I sat, my heart your hands, my voice in my throat, knowing all too well I had been so very, very wrong.
It would have been okay, I think, had it happened before this weekend, before these last few days. It would have been better, in fact, because then the last few days would not have happened. Not that I regret them, but they highlight the contours of the loss—starkly render the grossness of my miscalculation.
I am sorry that it came to this. So sorry to see the light gone again from your eyes. It was a miracle that it came back once. And I know it will not come back again.
I wanted to say good bye, but I could not form the words. I left you tonight, and you wanted me gone. Wanted the object of your guilt away. So that you could stop thinking about the things that were making you uncomfortable.
I want you to miss me. I want you to ache for me, and your body to crave my touch. I want to leave some emptiness that cannot be filled any other way. I want you to notice the arc, the cruel contour of the void. To wrestle the dull, throbbing agony of Nothing where Something used to be. Where I used to be. I want you to be excruciatingly aware that I am not with you, and for you to wish with each breath that I were.
Are we better off now? What has been my footprint upon your existence? I have changed so much for you, you say. How will it be for you when I am gone?
I will have memories that are tender and sweet, but which make no sense.
I’ll have a man barring the door, imploring me to speak, to talk to him, holding me, caressing me, wiping away my tears, assuring me that he cares. I'll have a man cradling my one tiny hand in both of his, lips softly pressing my palm, his eyes closed—all of the feeling in the universe gathered and distilled and delivered in that one achingly honest kiss.
And I'll have a man across a table, who might as well be across the galaxy for the distance between us. The light dead and gone. As extinguished as a burned-out star.
I wanted this to be my good bye to you—a closure, an ending. I have to let you go, I have no other choice. I cannot make you feel something you don't, and if the time you've spent with me has not made it come, there is nothing that will.
And now it is all done. All nicely cleaned up. I have taken your numbers from my phone. The last of my possessions have been taken from your home; and here there is no thing of yours. All that might perhaps remain are a few strands of my golden hair, the glittery devil horns (if one knew the right incident), the sweater I gave you and (to the best of my knowledge) two pictures of me. That is it. That is all that is left of me - all the proof in the world that I ever existed for you.
Just last night you were here…
Original composition date: 2002
Maybe then I could breathe again.
I was so happy to see that light return to your eyes. To have you look at me and smile for no reason. Smile just to smile. Because you can. Because you can't help yourself.
That was the second birth. The ease, the light, the smile—it had left your face once. That was the first death. I remember the wall that slammed between us then. How distant we felt—the indifference. I thought it would never come back. No relationship has re-births. Once that initial exhilaration has fled, it it does not come back. Not ever.
And yet, it did. That was the second birth.
And tonight it died again. It was the second death. In a matter of seconds the light fled from your face, from your eyes.
Perhaps it died in mine first. You saw it go. I almost cried. You saw. The cushion of elation that I had been gliding on for the last few weeks deflated in an instant.
A poorly chosen topic. Incorrect interpretation of events. I read you wrong, it was so clear. And it hurt so much. Sitting across the table from you, I couldn't look at you. I couldn't breath. I couldn't smile. I was suddenly hollow...
I had been so sure I was right. So certain you had come to love me, to love us. Convinced that you didn't want to lose me.
And there I sat, my heart your hands, my voice in my throat, knowing all too well I had been so very, very wrong.
It would have been okay, I think, had it happened before this weekend, before these last few days. It would have been better, in fact, because then the last few days would not have happened. Not that I regret them, but they highlight the contours of the loss—starkly render the grossness of my miscalculation.
I am sorry that it came to this. So sorry to see the light gone again from your eyes. It was a miracle that it came back once. And I know it will not come back again.
I wanted to say good bye, but I could not form the words. I left you tonight, and you wanted me gone. Wanted the object of your guilt away. So that you could stop thinking about the things that were making you uncomfortable.
I want you to miss me. I want you to ache for me, and your body to crave my touch. I want to leave some emptiness that cannot be filled any other way. I want you to notice the arc, the cruel contour of the void. To wrestle the dull, throbbing agony of Nothing where Something used to be. Where I used to be. I want you to be excruciatingly aware that I am not with you, and for you to wish with each breath that I were.
Are we better off now? What has been my footprint upon your existence? I have changed so much for you, you say. How will it be for you when I am gone?
I will have memories that are tender and sweet, but which make no sense.
I’ll have a man barring the door, imploring me to speak, to talk to him, holding me, caressing me, wiping away my tears, assuring me that he cares. I'll have a man cradling my one tiny hand in both of his, lips softly pressing my palm, his eyes closed—all of the feeling in the universe gathered and distilled and delivered in that one achingly honest kiss.
And I'll have a man across a table, who might as well be across the galaxy for the distance between us. The light dead and gone. As extinguished as a burned-out star.
I wanted this to be my good bye to you—a closure, an ending. I have to let you go, I have no other choice. I cannot make you feel something you don't, and if the time you've spent with me has not made it come, there is nothing that will.
And now it is all done. All nicely cleaned up. I have taken your numbers from my phone. The last of my possessions have been taken from your home; and here there is no thing of yours. All that might perhaps remain are a few strands of my golden hair, the glittery devil horns (if one knew the right incident), the sweater I gave you and (to the best of my knowledge) two pictures of me. That is it. That is all that is left of me - all the proof in the world that I ever existed for you.
Just last night you were here…
Original composition date: 2002
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