I’m not upset that you’re gone, really. You left a while ago. You started slipping away about six months ago. That’s okay. I’m just upset that now the memory if you is slipping away. I can no longer feel your feet warming my cold feet; your warm, smooth, strong arms pulling me into you and forming around me like a blanket; your lips tickling my shoulders with kisses; your fingers trickling down my back and resting on my hips; your black eyes fixated on my soft brown ones. I remember these things. But I force the memories and I write them down and I draw the outline of them and us. There are no more easy memories that come to me and make me feel anything. The full memories have slipped away and the empty ones have taken their place in an effort to recreate you and the love we had.
Time.
The
stinging,
square-shaped
scrape
on
your
knee
that
burned
with
red
fire.
The
long
string
beans
that
with
every
bite
teased
you
and
tasted
bitter.
The
lanky,
tall,
plastic
Barbie
whose
foot
was
too
large
for
the
purple
stilletto
heel.
The momentary.
A long walk surrounded by cold blue sky and almost artificial white clouds and red crisp leaves blown by the wind and rain slapping the ground and forming baby puddles and the orange sunset like an egg yolk being broken and spreading over the sky. The lasting.
Happiness.
I painted my toenails bright pink, shaved my legs, and decided to be happy.
Self love.
Everyone comes into your life for a reason. You came into my life to love me when I couldn’t and didn’t love myself. I get it now. And I guess now that you’re gone, I have to learn to not be dependent on the love of others, but rather, I have to love myself.
Things.
Things would be a lot easier if you didn’t have this effect on me — the effect you once said I had on you, too. Things would be a lot easier if you would stay out of my dreams. Things would be a lot easier if my mind weren’t trained to associate nighttime and dreaming with good, comforting thoughts of you. Things would be a lot easier if I hadn’t loved you so much.
It.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t know how I feel about anything. I know that it keeps me up at night. I know that it makes me aware of the watch on the night stand ticking and the light in the hallway creeping through the space between the door and the floor. I know that with it in my life and on my mind I can’t muster up the healthy emotions needed to let other people in my life. I know that right now it is the only real company I have, the only thing that is with me all the time. With me and it, there’s no room for him or me.
Blanket of love.
When I hated myself, you loved me enough for the both of us. Your love was a homemade blanket — warm and heavy. It would sit on my bed, and whenever I got cold, I would drape it over my shoulders or cocoon myself up in it, so only my head was peeking out. And then I would get too warm and claustrophobic, and I would throw it off me. And again, it would sit on my bed, waiting for me to need it again. But now the blanket is gone, and I miss it a lot more than I thought I would. Now when I get cold, thinking of the blanket feeds my chill instead of bringing me warmth. The left-over threads aren’t enough to cover me.
Thoughts.
They are so light and airy, held together carefully with the tiny bit of love that still remains. And they tiptoe so quietly that I can barely hear their footsteps as they open the door and take a seat in my mind. They’re of no importance, though. I acknowledge them, let them rest for a little while, but them I’m done with them. I guess they get tired of waiting for me to pay them more attention because whenever I go to check on them, they’re gone. They leave more quietly than they entered. And every time they try and make a home for themselves in my mind, I think they give up a little bit more because I think they see that I don’t have room at the table for them, and I don’t have the time to serve them tea to keep them nourished.
