As the crow flys

I know, I told you that I would write a story about your life; When you were everything to me, my muse. I wish I could have kept that promise, because your story is a beautifully sad one. The kind of poetic deterioration of humanity. You parted from me in a way that left a hole. Not a burn mark, bleeding or aortic spraying wound, but a hole, an absence. One I feel every day, like the weathered rub in a worry stone, I touch your place daily, and dream of when I had the swelling fullness from our friendship. Please don't worry, I'm perfectly okay. I am managing, and the gifts you gave me, I use every day. We grew a lot together and I am so glad for that. I can't finish your story, because you do not finish it with me. I'll end your prose suddenly, as our time ended. My story continues after you, my dear late muse.

I haven't celebrated Valentine's Day since I was in school and they made us. The year after this, I caught my fiancé cheating on Valentine's Day. I married him still, and the day became trite and forced. My first serious relationship after my marriage(yes I married this manipulative, abusive asshole even after he cheated.) we celebrated Christmas a second time rather than Valentine's Day. I was happy. The next year I was with someone new, and it was trite and forced still and ended with him asking me to bed and then leaving, saying he wanted to go on a bike ride alone. I called my best friend and cursed him and cried because it was just a reminder no matter what, there was no "safe" place in a relationship. This year feels like home. He took me on a hike, said he was going to show me his favorite place there. I was walking ahead and saw a tree, gasped, declared its branches home, and he told me it was the place he wanted to show me. This happens frequently with him. We say the same things with different words at the same time. We do things the same way, without knowing the other saw every other way as "wrong". My whole life Valentine's Day was a sham. I'm here to tell you is still is. Love, however, is no sham. It's the rawness of humanity, it's something, that once fits; could bring you to a place of such rawness you may bleed out, or it can become home.