On the Death of Their Fidelity

As he walks away, his words echo in my head. Goodbye.

Goodbye.

I stand up from the cold park bench and run my hands through my hair. My fingers get lost in the ever-present tangles and I gingerly free my hand from my locks. I sigh and stare for a few moments at his back, slowly disappearing from my view and into the trees.

Deep breath, and I turn the opposite direction as him. He’s made it quite clear, after all, that it isn’t our life anymore. It’s his life and my life.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been alone. A long time, but somehow I just can’t bring myself to regret it, to cry, to get that heart broken feeling that all the songs talk about.

Why is that? I loved him, still do, but I’m not sad, not even a little bit. It wasn’t just a couple of weeks we spent together, not just a few months. It was years.

Years.

For as long as our my friends have known me, it’s been Me & Him, Him & Me. And now suddenly… it’s not. Oh, how suddenly.

“A walk today?”

“Why sure,” I say.

But this is not what I anticipated.

But it’s okay.

I’m okay.

Because, really, if he doesn’t want me anymore isn’t it better that we go our separate ways? That I carry on with my life and he carry on with his. Because they are separate now. He will achieve his dreams, like he always does, and I will attempt in my usual way to achieve mine. But I won’t give up. I never do.

And anyhow, why would I want to be with somebody that doesn’t want me back?

So here I go; to start a new life, an independent one, a different one. Perhaps, even a better one.

You're A Bit Too Late

I walk alone. I walk alone.

The city I tour is spotless. Nobody’s lived here. Ever. No friendships made, no relationships ended, no families grown.

The white sidewalks are sparkling clean. No one rushing, pushing other pedestrians by because they are late to their first day at the new company.  No one blushing in front of the latest crush after tripping on the uneven cracks in the sidewalk.

Because it’s too late.

The lines on the street are newly painted, reflecting the streetlights that are forever frozen on green. Go. Go. Go. But there are no cars, no pedestrians looking left, then right, then left again. Just like their mother taught them twenty years earlier. No one getting pulled over for the first time, hands trembling as they reach into the glove compartment for the insurance card. No one whispering, “I don’t even know what that is.”

Because it’s too late.

A quiet breeze blows a newspaper across the new, dark asphalt. I pick it up and it’s blank. No news. No honors won. No car crashes because there was no mother driving, putting on make up, and giving the baby a pacifier, all at the same time. Nothing done on accident. Nothing done on purpose. Nothing done at all.

Because it’s too late.

Further and further I go, until I stand in front of a picket fence protected home. It’s cream, and spotless. It looks like a home that a young couple would move into, with their two and a half children. But there is nobody and there is nothing. There is no tricycle on the front lawn, despite the young owner being told three times to put it away. There is no car in the driveway with a dent in the rear bumper. That’s how they met each other, after all. Except they never did. They never met because they don’t exist.

Because it’s too late.

My time is up. I took a little too long to realize that those friendships won’t forge themselves. That relationships won’t happen on their own. That families don’t grow without effort.

So I walk alone.

I walk alone.

Musings of a Love-struck Girl

You asked me a question to which my reply was this:

No. I don’t think about you.

I don’t think about you like snowballs think about fights.

Not like windows think about cleaning,

Nor like grass dreads the lawnmower.

I’m thinking about dread.

I don’t think about you like computers think about crashing.

Not like nails think about chalkboards,

Nor like stilettos think about blisters.

I’m thinking about blisters.

I don’t think about you like poets think about life.

           Not like board games think about dice,

           Nor like rain thinks about kisses.

           I’m thinking about rain.

I don’t think about you like teachers think about weekends.

Not like books think about dust,

Nor like pens think about mistakes.

I’m thinking about mistakes.

Your response was this:

For once in your life, don’t be yourself.

For once in your life, be honest.

For once in your life, trust someone else.

So here you go:

I’m thinking about you. Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like a father thinks about forgiveness.

Like a mother thinks about the day they leave home.

Like I think about leaving home and this icky place behind.

Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like embarrassment thinks about a blush.

Like daisies think about “I love you nots.”

Like I think about being the target of too many “I love you nots.”

Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like a lover thinks about being betrayed.

Like a pillow thinks about dreams.

Like I think about dreams and how they fail too often.

Honestly.

I’m thinking about you like you think about her.

           Like she thinks about him.

           Like he used to think about me.

           Honestly.

I’m thinking about you. 

A Note On Love

Love is getting lost.

Love is becoming someone you've never known before.

Love is a math problem.

Love is grasping for yourself and only getting air.

Love is meeting the in-laws for the first time.

Love is suddenly not knowing the end of your story.

Love is becoming dependent, right as you were becoming independent.

Love is watching and waiting.

Love is being a fool, and not minding. Mostly.

Love is cleaning up messes.

Love is a longed-for trip to Paris.

Love is being put in a mental institution.

Love is getting over your pet peeves.

Love is hiding.

Love is confessing. Everything.

Love is spending more time on something than you intended.

Love is falling down and cutting your knee.

Love is a late night ice-cream run.

Love is being able to breath easier.

Love is being claustrophobic.

Love is falling down, getting that sinking feeling, and then, maybe, perhaps, someone catching you for the first time.

Love is getting found. Finally.