A whole new day
I never woke
Static’s on the
All night long
I never made
I ran out of
Two feet from
A foot to
Of writing things
That make sense
I didn’t say
I wanted to kill myself
I wanted to
She kept on
“The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.”
I wish I could be, an emotional-history revisionist.
They say that the victors of war, are the ones who write history. In love, are there really any winners if it ends in heartbreak? I suppose it’s those who do the leaving. While they may come away scarred, ultimately they get the privilege of causing the most damage.
They get to make the clean break.
They get to hold the answers, withholding them if they see fit.
They get to dictate future interaction, or lack thereof.
Of course, they also don’t have to live with the same sentimentality day to day. When you make the decision to break off a relationship, it immediately dulls any nostalgia that can be traced back to certain things. Your time is over with that particular connection, therefore severing the need for emotional attachment to places or objects. Those who choose to end things, don’t have to live with: seeing the lamp-post you were leaning against, when I first saw your beautiful smile; or passing by restaurant we had our first dinner date.
Nor do they still struggle with rushing for the Richmond-Brighouse train vs. The YVR Airport one. Not that it has ever made a difference to my commute home; it just always felt cozier in my heart to take YOUR train.
Those triggers are just the ones trained on me daily; they open up much deeper wounds. Thoughts upon thoughts that never seem to cease. Scars that re-open every time I think of:
Our first hug (vice grip tight – I still feel it to this day)
How you were almost always quicker to text first after a date (unless I cheated)
The way you hissed your S’s for emphasis (aww yisss)
Our first kiss on the train platform (one on the nose)
The first time I saw you dance (so beautiful and carefree)
How even though you hate asparagus, you still ate it when I made it
How my hand fit so beautifully into the crook of your back (and how safe it felt)
How a popsicle would please you more than a fancy dinner (Rockets of course)
How Batman will forever be tied to you (Bane voices on the bus)
How I’ll never be able to watch Game of Thrones, no matter how hard I try (I’ll just hear your voice mocking: “Khaleesi” and “Not without my Dragons”)
The way your eyes lit up when discussing your Master’s Thesis
I could go on.
I carry these thoughts day after day after day. I didn’t get to decide I stopped loving you. I didn’t even get to hear when and why you stopped loving me. Armed with that hurt, I could re-write you to all my friends, as a cold, uncaring, horrible wench. The problem with that is, I’ve never been a very good fiction writer.
I didn’t get to make the clean break you did. There is only one way I could have that kind of ending.
Let it be known to history that:
I will always remember you as sweet and kind. Patient to a fault with my weird idiosyncrasies. Beautiful in every way. From your sparkling eyes, bright joyful smile, the sweet slow cadence of your voice, crazy hair, loving heart, and giving soul. In our short time together, I feel like I have enough memories to fill a lifetime…so even though I still lie awake, sleepless almost every single night, I’ll always have nothing but tender thoughts and love for you in my heart.