#sincesheleft

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After we broke-up, I had no idea what to do with myself. I did not do anything cliché like go on a bender and wake-up surrounded by empty bottles or sit outside your door begging you to let me in to talk to you and take you back. I simply went home, eyes watery and red, and sat. I sat there on my bed for hours staring at the walls of my room; walls  plastered with blank pieces of paper and faced with shelves crammed full of book without titles and anonymously recorded albums, the true identity of the things no longer mattered. My brain had emptied itself from the shock of what happened, and nothing was as it was supposed to be.

  It was not as though food had no taste or that music had no sound, it is just that it all seemed so worthless and colorless, as if I was hearing and tasting things, but there was no soul to them to be found. I do not remember falling asleep that night, in fact looking back now, I am unsure if I even did. I just remember futile attempts to busy myself, I tried reading, but that was a bigger struggle than when I was first learning to read, and then I realized it, that I had to learn to be single again. It is not something I wanted to do. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I remembered easily I had combined myself with you, the only person I ever truly loved, and then you were gone. All I could think of the difficulty I would have learning to be a single individual when I had such a hard time learning to read and write as child growing up with dyslexia, and all I knew was that I wanted you back.

  As time went on though, I saw you less often in passing, thought of you less often, and then one day you were gone, but not for good. It is funny how you remember things, on occasion you still creep in the margins of a page of a book I am reading, you appear on a page I just wrote, or I can hear you humming to a song as I was able to find the soul of the things I enjoyed most in life. Now, with life as it once was, I am able to remember so many things about us; there are thoughts that fill me with the pleasure of life and make me want to relive them, and there are those that fill me with regret and make me long to change them. 

  But, of all the memories I have of us, the one I revisit most in my mind, is the time when I was leaving your place after our break-up. There you are, on your deck tears in your eyes, leaning on the rail watching me leave, just like the first time I came over when you were leaning on it waiting for me to arrive. I was in my car cheeks moist with tears, hands on the steering wheel hoping you would come running, stopping me from leaving and pulling me back inside; but you were not moving, and you simply stood there staring at me. So, I fumbled with my keys, dropping them to the floorboards and after I bent over to pick them up, started my car, and looked for you again, you were gone. I could just see you back as you walked through the door and shut it, and just like that you were gone.

  -Tyler T."

I do not like him. He is selfish; he is arrogant; he uses people, and he is inconsiderate. He is greedy and indecisive. He cannot have us all. I try to be near him as much as possible.

I am on his couch, letting him push me over, but then he just lays there, breathing me in until I become restless and sit up. My face is inches away from his, smiling, waiting, until I get restless and run away. He insists on walking me home, but walks with her, instead. This is a farce. I am on the stairs, nearly shouting at him for expecting things to always go his way. But really, so do I. I expect him to want me, like I thought he did, like I want him. Sometimes, I think it would really be okay if he were to use me because he uses me anyway, but it is so passive and stagnant. I can feel his eyes on me, and almost as if he were, I can feel him not not touching me. In a drinking game, he kisses his hand (instead of me) and touches my cheek. He seems to stay away from my body, but he always finds his way to my bed. 

I won’t mention his indiscretions until he acknowledges them. He talks of her, but never to me, no, never to me. He cannot reveal himself to me in the same way he does the others. To them he spills his heart and his kisses. He talks of me to her. I am left with his stolen glances, and I am the only one who would notice these, anyway. He stares at me, and sometimes he looks so frightened. Eyelashes turned up like crowns surround his oval eyes. But he never moves, or changes. The emptiness of his actions is heavier than the fullness of his looks. And then she appears, so unavailable, and suddenly I am not enough. He disappears from my side and I will not see him for the rest of the night. I do not want to like him. I know that he is not worth it. But clearly I’m not worth it, either. The things I’ve heard and seen negate the way he act towards me. He can be so sweet. I like him and I would forgive those things. He asks me to go and meet him, but I am not on a piece of string. I want to steal back the time spent wasted by the window or in my head, for he is never on time.

I will not to talk to him first. I will not make the first move. But I will think of him, always.

I always find myself reading sincesheleft.tumblr.com

I don't know if it will help you out in anyway, but it always makes me think.

sincesheleft:

Define Fine

 “Hey there,” she said “How are you doing?” I feel like banging my head against the wall, because feeling pain is better than feeling nothing. I feel like running, but I can’t run away from myself, nor your constantly echoing voice in my head. I can’t find a way away. 

People say get over it. Life has its ups and downs. They are right, life has its ups and down, she breaks up you break down. I’m walking down the road called despair. The air is thick. My feet are numb.  But I have to keep on moving, keep on moving on. Each step I take gets me further away from you and brings me closer to myself, because I forgot my own language just to speak yours. I was lost. Lost in translation.  “Fine,” I said “I’m doing fine”.