It’s quite at last my love
All the others are gone, and I sit here in this apartment that is empty of memories of you. It’s strange to have the smell of other guys waft through the rooms when I’m only used to the scent of you. I sit on the patio, a stack of books by my side. And water. There’s the Camus you left me to, and sometimes the words don’t have meaning but I understand the pain and loneliness that lurks in between the lines. Because hungover from last night of painful over-drinking, I own that pain on the inside. I also read Bukowski, sad that I didn’t get my book back in time. In time for us to read together. There wasn’t enough time for us to do so many things together. But I so would have liked to read Bukowski with you.
I sit and do my own thing and before I know it, the pages blur and an image of you takes place of whatever it was that I’m doing. You brushing your teeth and laughing because I was the first girl you’d ever seen pee. You dancing in the kitchen, and I blissed out, laughing. The way, sleepy faced, you’d say “have a good day” as I kissed you and left for work in the morning, I always came back to kiss you again. Us sharing a cigarette and then your always imminent need to take a shit. These stills of you come out of nowhere and they take me to a place I don’t want to be.
To the reminder that you left me.
You left me.
(“You know why I don’t quit smoking? Because I just fucking love it too much,” you said. You also said you love me, but that didn’t stop you from leaving.)
And in the notebook I started to remember all sorts of things which I intended to give to you, I end up writing my thoughts on you and the decision you’ve made and how, I’m not even angry. Sometimes I wish I could be. I wonder if I’m trying, or if it comes naturally to be forgiving. Forgiving of you anyways, maybe it’s just the after effect of uninhibited loving. The stupidity you allow yourself when you believe your thing isn’t a just a thing—it was a love meant for lasting. How wrong we can be.
I told myself not to drink, (and I did so well this whole week) but when you broke my heart so complete there were friends, there was alcohol, and there was the need to try to be something else. Someone else. I’ve already done things I regret, and yet I also feel nothing. My sister says “pain only makes real writers brilliant writers” and I know she’s trying to tell me something. “Write, write it all out of your system,” but the words that come for you prefer to arrive in liquid bullets, as if all the things you’d said to me turn to liquid lies that falls and flows into my pillow that is still damp when I wake in the morning. In the end, you said you want to be with me but right now you owe it to yourself and you owe it to your dream, not even my willingness to do whatever it takes could change things, and yet you said you hope you come back to me. There was so much you had said. There are just so many tears.
“Password protect whatever you have to,” my sister suggested. But what is there to hide about heartbreak? I am no stranger to the shame. This blog has seen me through the other big two, and as I write about heartbreak #3, it find it strange that there is still so much to say. this is the worst of them yet.
Each heartbreak is unique, but this time, this time i really thought this was it. and perhaps because of that, I am embarrassed by the extent of humiliation I feel. I wonder, if you’re here reading this, I wonder if you’ll come back after this.
I don’t know if there’ll be more posts about you, I hope not. But I know I probably won’t be able to avoid boughts of woeful poetry, in a way, you still inspire me and I wonder if way out there where you are if I’ll cross your mind, if you’ll write about me in your diary, if somehow deep inside, you’ll still write me poetry–your words were always so moving, but I won’t count on it.
It’s just nice to know, that I once wrote something for you that you found so beautiful it moved you to tears. It was a different reason for crying.