I’m sitting here, wondering, is there still an us. Will there be, an us? Or, was there never an us to save. Nothing left but pieces. The polaroid pictures strung like bunting in my bedroom, couldn’t you have ripped the rope and dragged it out, like you did with your things? It only took a single touch and I, unravelled. I wasn’t wound tight enough, besides, the knot is always tighter when you’re not the one tying it.
Space and time, right? I’ll take the road less travelled, the roads we didn’t travel through together. All our favourite places that became my favourite places because my favourite person was always there. Places we found, whilst running around, not a care, the wind, playing with my hair. And you, playing with, me. But, all games must come to an end. It’s only summer for so long. Ironic how we spend the summer trying to stay cold and the winter trying to stay warm. When winter came, and we were cold, we couldn’t light the fire we so desperately needed, to protect our love. But the game must go on, even if it ends with both players, all players, losing, everything.
How long does one wait before, letting go? The time it takes for my iPhone to delete you from my recently deleted folder? Or the time it takes for you to vacate the space you have leased in my mind? The space between your shoulder and neck, you said was a softer landing strip, you said it was mine to rest. I can’t help but wonder who’s renting that space, now that I’m holding my own, heavy, head. And the space on your chest you said was mine. The space between my legs you claimed as yours. We were on borrowed land, borrowed time, we never belonged to each other. We never belonged to ourselves.
And, I know, I’ll make it out alive, the edges of our pictures will eventually soften. I’ll pull them out from under my bed, and they will no longer cut and burn me. Fuzzy and blurry. I’ll start to renovate the space in my mind. New drapes, new plates, same pictures in different frames. Eventually, it won’t really be you I’m missing. And you’ll no longer be at the front of my mind. I’ve got a lot of crazy stored up there. It’s just, the pesky retrieval cues. Great for trying to solve a murder but this case has already been shelved. Sometimes a cold case is just that, we were cold…case closed.
It’s the smell of a fresh coffee at Starbies, it takes me back to our first date. It’s the roses, freshly cut at your hands, it’s the red, pouring from where the thorns pricked you. Kind of like how I felt when our movie ended, and the credits, they just kept rolling. It’s the dice thrown onto the hard board, the games of Monopoly that would always end in sex on the board, a game we could both win at. It’s like a Marvel movie, there’s always more, I’m now at the post credits of our relationship. They are like little Easter eggs. But very deceptive, on the outside it’s chocolate, inside it’s a sickly fondant filling. The memories, they appear after the healing, restarting the cycle. Pretending I’ll be okay but at night laying on a cold bed and on an empty pillow and it’s your arms that I need, at this time.
Dating someone, you’re taking a course on them. It’s your job nay desire to know them. The need to be the one they seek for solace, advice and, well, love. However long that relationship lasts, be it three years like GCSE’s or just shy of two like A-Levels, you’ll be left with this abstract information that no longer holds any usefulness or value. Maybe, value? But either way, it takes up a lot of space, unnecessary space, limited space.
I guess taking a crash course is fine, as long as the memories stay in short term. Something casual. No processing involved. Though, a drink or two might help. Help hinder your mind, stopping the Train of Thought before it makes it to the long-term factory and stores the memories for longer than it’s deemed healthy to. Perfectly wrong for me. Maybe that’s why I can’t help myself.
It’s the uncertainty. It’s the line between hope and realism. Ideally, I should burn the pictures, but the idea of adding to the photo album re-ignites that candle. A small fire to melt the icy remains. A beacon of hope. It’s the what ifs. What if, we get back together? What if, I look back and I can use them to track my growth? What if…
But, even if, I won’t stay the same. The pictures, they captured a girl, who was a little less confused and a little more determined. I am stronger now, but I’m so confused.
It’s just a part of life. The ink dries, the colours fade, and it doesn’t feel the same. It’s never the same. Same with all the memories. With every short day and every long night, it’ll become harder to piece together the puzzle that was us. Was.
It is not us anymore, it’s just you…