There is an alley in Europe where his signature hammer of, “I still love you, but I can’t”, was used to crack my soul.
Just for a girl he wanted to know.
Just for a girl I thought I knew.
I wish she would’ve given me one last bouquet of her laughter before sending me home in a car with nothing but an apology letter.
My senses have been a bit more heightened, and a bit less understood since then.
Now, I am sure there are far better people who have far worse things happen to them.
But even saying your name has become an unspeakable battle that I can’t seem to win.
I find myself choking on every letter as they try to form themselves behind my teeth.
There are still days where my voice shakes more than your hands did the first night you held me.
I know my body is made of sharp bones wrapped in deflective satin skin. I know that makes me a challenge to love. I know there are so many people who regret trying.
I have tried dipping my toes in the garden of gratitude for what it means to be in love, but it only leaves me regretting the lessons I never wanted to learn in the first place.
Now, all I have left is my ability to excel in the silent treatment, an envelope overflowing with pointless memories, a good relationship with karma, and a front row seat at a cinema playing every dissolved opportunity on loop.
How strange it is that holding past experiences in dimmer light can shift the perspective of what actually happened.
How strange it is that secrets being revealed gives immediate permission for what was hiding to step into the daylight.
How strange it is to still write about you.
© 2020 Xandra Lang