I saw this coming. Didn’t you? From the minute you kissed me- hands on my waist, eyes slightly open; trying to count my freckles- I knew. I knew it was going to end with me sobbing into your t shirt at a train station, trying to conjure up the last bit of strength I had to stop smelling you, stop kissing you and to get out of your car.
Every step I took away from your stupid bittersweet little smile felt like ice. I never want to feel like that again. Saying an almost permanent, definite good bye to you was scarier than being locked inside a room and screamed at, scarier than traveling alone, scarier than walking home in the dark. At least in those situations I had an end goal – break down the door, find terminal A, sprint to safety. The outcome of being left behind by you is “try to be happy”- try desperately not to spill tears all over my keyboard, find the few upbeat songs I own, don’t cry on the train, don’t cry on the train, don’t cry on the train.Walking away from you was like hacking off parts of myself to leave behind, I swear I left a piece of my being on your front seat.
The thought of kissing anybody else goodbye makes me sick. I couldn’t possibly share dinosaur daydreams or Halloween kisses or tubs of ice cream with anybody else. But when I stepped out of that car, I accepted the possibility that I’d have to.
Maybe we fit right?
Maybe we don’t. Maybe our little love affair- our dalliance with miscommunication and morning giggles- is doomed to remain strictly digital. Maybe you’ll get busy and write your masters and forget to come home and I’ll go back to kissing strangers in bars, trying to find some parts of you in the wreckage.
Maybe we’re both not as great as we thought we were.
Maybe I’m doing that thing I do where I’m over-dramatic and you laugh and kiss my cheek and tell me it’s one of your favourite things about me- how much I feel, how desperate I am for genuine human connection.
There’s a lot of maybe when it comes to us-yet I’ve never felt so definite, so attached, so willing to use superlatives.
This is a mess. I’m a mess. A rubbed raw, icy footed, miscommunicated mess. But if the mess was caused by us, and that last kiss goodbye caused this type of carnage in my life, then I can live with it.
I can get up in the morning. I can write paragraphs that don’t mean anything in an attempt to stay numb. I can lie when people ask me where I’d rather be, because the answer of “next to you, holding your hand” isn’t a plausible answer.
I knew this was coming. I’m still in denial that it has, I still expect that you’ll come back and pick me up in a spirit shirt and brown corduroys. I’m desperately clinging on to the notion of July and December visits, like a child in the middle of a custody agreement. I’m prepared to feed myself fantasies until it doesn’t hurt to walk, until my eyes dry up, until I’m okay.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.