Heartbroken in Tokyo / 10 July 2019
Our dirty washing twists and writhes in the machine. A rectangular laundromat on a corner block, where a rusting Seiko clock is stuck on 6.00. You have left for a business trip on the tail end of our holiday. You made the apartment spotless before you left, neatly stacking my bric-a-brac – a roll of film, a copy of 50 Fashion Looks That Changed the 90s, two half-finished notebooks, sunscreen, lipstick, receipts and coins from South Korea. It reminds me of the first time you came to my hometown. My mother spent two days cooking for my 22nd birthday, and left a massacre of plates, whisks and wooden spoons, tin foil, in a pile in the sink – ready for the cleaners to come and tidy it up. You disappeared for 20 minutes, working noiselessly over the sink and ordering it all into piles. A stack of plates covered in gravy. Her expensive knives and forks placed in a mug. Cups lined up on the edge of the sink tray. “That’s one thing that my first hospitality job taught me – the mess is never as bad when you put it in order.” The machine is shaking now. Rattling and shaking our clothes – reds, greens, greys, whites, your pastel cotton boxer shorts from Uniqlo. I tried to buy them for you once and got a size too large. They sat in your drawer for months. What did you do with them? I will miss the shape of you, your pale, spotted skin and your unruly hair. I will miss laying in your bed, watching you clean your room, topless in your pastel boxer shorts. I will miss your ability to problem solve. I will miss the way you held Orb, the way your voice melts when you are talking to someone you love. The way you would open the door when we first started dating, when I would come to your house on a Sunday night and you would open the door and your voice would lilt up as you said “Hel-lo!”. Sunday nights with you, moving around the kitchen working on a meal, the fire going. Your silence. I used to be scared of it. I used to be scared of our silence in the car, it used to make me anxious. Now I surround your silence with chatter. I talk at you with my rolling train of thought. I like the way she’s styled her cardigan, are unbalanced buttons in now? I could eat but I couldn’t eat a whole meal. You’ll only work out what you want once you have nothing left to show for. All of your lovers fuck you up in one way or another. It took two and a half years, it took losing each other for us to finally peel back our layers to one another. For me to tell you about the first time I tried to change my body permanently. That one of my constant fears is that someone will pinch my bum while I am walking up the stairs. For you to tell me that one of your biggest fears is that somebody will accidentally eye-poke you with the corners of their umbrella: “My eye level is at everyone’s umbrella level. It could happen.” It took me this long to know you, and now I must convince myself to un-know all the parts of you that I love most. This is the pain of life. Showing yourself to someone so fearlessly, and knowing that they could reject it all, that they couldn’t be ready for it yet. You are not ready for my love, but I gave it to you without thinking twice. I found you when I needed love most, when I needed love so that I could love myself. Through our relationship I have learnt to love myself, you have taught me to stand on my own, to navigate as the free and curious person that I am. Throughout our relationship you unlearnt perhaps what you already knew. Or did you never learn to love yourself? The spots on your back, the pocket of fat on your stomach, your grey hairs, your long face, your gummy smile, your big beautiful eyes, your endless curiosity with new things, your need to put yourself on the line and dive into a new adventure. When I met you you had traveled the world, soaked up so much of it, you were so full of experience. I thought you knew every part of yourself. But it took me so long to come to understand you, you gave yourself to me piecemeal. Hurt from previous lovers, scared to know yourself wholly. Now you can go and learn who you are without me
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A year ago a mutual friend of ours said to me: break ups are funny. It’s so painful you think it’s never going to end. Then a year later you look at a photo of them and it just doesn’t hurt as much.
But your notes are full of odes to the deceased love. The words you used to cleanse your heart.
The good news is now I am free. To be me.
