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
