The cycle keeps repeating itself. Five years ago, I watched someone in a white T-shirt walk away from me. Today, I watched the same person walk away from me in a white sweatshirt. It’s sad that as far as I’ve come, I’m still chasing the same ghost.
We sat in the orange, rickety chair. Poorly supported in his arms, I look down to see the colorings of our skin. He is bones and his eyes red from exhaustion while mine would later be red from tears.
“I just want to know that I won’t have to worry about you contacting me in three years.”
He shrugs beneath me. “I might.”
It feels like a threat.
“You’ll probably just move and won’t tell me where you’re going.”
My store of tears is empty. They have solidfied into that blow to the stomach. The blow to wake you, to remind you that this existed, and that you existed in the myriad of mistakes. That not only successes shape you.
Quod me nutrit me destriut.
J found his own temerity when he finally asked me, “Maybe it’s you that should be taking the hint?” I think he expected this to be a felling cut of clarity, but it was already a piece of wreckage in my mind. It kept being swallowed by the waves, then drifting back to the shore of my thoughts on the silent and moon-filled nights.
It was never a hint. It was using the very act of inaction, the withdrawal, that was to be the action. I fought it. I fought it even though I understood it – quite the fool’s errand. Yet I’ve continue to feel I wouldn’t change it.
…Or would I? Where would I be now if two years ago I had left it all as an awkward, yet hilarious, one-sided tale of woe over coffee at a truck stop restaurant? This is the spiral that will drive you mad.
I could quote you the number of days. J said that when I stop counting I would be over the addiction. I never stopped counting last time though and I hold more hope for now, but still don’t believe that I’ll stop counting. It’s my form of waiting. I listen for my phone, count, and wait.
I started a draft to a blog a couple weeks ago that said something like, “Watching someone fall out of love with you is worse than death.” I deleted it. I did not know the implication of death. I still don’t know the implication of that sort of death. I do know loss. I deleted it also because it’s overwrought and reeks of that palpable, almost fake, angst, but letting the statement hang and dry in the air doesn’t change the gut shifting nature of that emotion.
I described us best in a conversation with a friend. We were living continually on peaks and valley. I was high on the peak, but could not breath and the sun burned me. I would walk back down. Sometimes I would jump. Somewhere he then walked up. We never took the same path. We weren’t even on similar paths to which we could wave to one another; we took different sides of the mountain. We were always separate. This, I found, was how he really wanted it.
I bought the lines, even the recent. I thought I could trust the body, his heart fluttering like a bird when I laid my hand on his, rippling under his chest. But then, I didn’t listen to my own. That same night, when kissed I realized how dull I had become to the kisses and the touch. His kisses had become only a way to placate me for the touch. I kept being reminded in my mind that, “whores don’t kiss.”
Crazily, right about now it seems like death would seems easier than the loss of love, but I know that isn’t true at all. An old friend of mine would have a tactic against his past, which I can guarantee was used for me too. In passing, he would just shrug and say, “It doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.”