Heartbreak smells clean, like Dove shampoo and Johnson’s body wash, it tastes like my toothpaste, it sounds like Rihanna, ‘We Found Love’ and all the times you turned away because I needed you more, it feels like walls on my fist… What bereaves me is thought. I can’t think, I don’t want to. Hunger, heat and thirst evade me, leaving a chasm for thought, but there are none. They have gone, like you.
Is this what the freedom is? A chasm, in the darkness, under a fan, huddled to a blanket. It wasn’t like this when I thought, almost fantasized about it. It was supposed to be easier, it wasn’t supposed to matter as much, you weren’t supposed to be so nice about it. You were supposed to be mean, even meaner than you were so I could consolidate my guilt for doing this to you. Instead, in the end, it was your kindness that broke my heart. That you would still wait me. It was strange, our goodbye was so hurried, you had to go pray and you said goodbye and that was it. That’s it. I keep repeating it to myself, that is it. A hurried goodbye, but then, that was all there was ever going to be.
It’s the weekend so I think you might go out, girls will be there and they are free to like you now just as you are free to like them. That feels weird, weirder to you than me now. I have been aware of that for a while now, because I am still willing to love. This void is a strange kind of world I created myself, I keep checking my phone to see if you realise I am lying here alone and scared of this pain too. I am here again, suspended in time, waiting for this to pass but I am scared that there isn’t any forgiveness in the universe for doing this to another human being.
Maybe there is salvation, when I know I am doing this because I want us both to be happy, that I truly believe I never would make you happy. That despite everything you believe about loving me, you too believe me when I say this, deep down somewhere you know. It’s just maybe I was okay with being the bad guy, the one who could take the fall and so here I am falling. For the first time I find my own arms, they are strong enough to take me and I don’t need to hold on to anything. I will cry when I look at that William Turner painting and think about how we stood there, maybe I will never be able to go and look at it again. Maybe I am done with William Turner all together. I don’t know, I feel okay though and I know we will both feel fine again. Someday soon this chasm, standing in for us won’t be there, maybe understanding will.