You were my first grown up lover. Heck, sometimes it feels like you were my only grown up lover. Is this why some things about you return to me, again and again? With such stunning clarity, with startling vividness, that I catch my breath, holding it as long as I can, because I know this refreshed memory will with my exhaling breath be gone again. The sad lingering to remain. Have me for days unable to leave my music room; because that is the only place I preserved you. Allowed any trace of you to remain. In the music we used to listen to together.
When you used to be so amused by my maniac desire to label everything. Even music. Determine this music was for us, for our moods, for the time we managed to have together. Looking back, which was surprisingly a lot of time, for me. I never seemed, before you, after you, to quite have enough time for anyone else. Though I can’t exactly say what keeps me so preoccupied, other than this Sisyphus rolling of sentences. But with you, I took out whole afternoons, then evenings, and began to discover the meaning of weekends. Cherishing them like a poet who works in a bank cherishes his Sundays.
Our love story is the story I will never be able to properly tell because it is the most painful of all. The most personal. The only one that has mattered to me, I have thought about, dreamed in my sleep, and seen in things others saw nothing in. I have tried everything to get you out of me.
I have tried to drink you out of me. Blinding hangovers from nights of taking the bitterest of stuff I could find, stuff that left particles heavy as sand and dust on my tongue, and I had no idea who the distiller was.
Am I glad you are so far from me right now? Yes! I yank it out of me. Yes, I’m glad you are not so near because I know if you were nearby I would not have even the weeks in between of mind peace I can get. When I have tried very hard not to let myself think of you, of us, and how I have no one to blame.
I should like to be the injured party. I should like to play the victim. I should like to have a reason to drink myself to a stupor till the day I die. I would like to have you to blame. I would like to say you ruined me. I would like to say you spoiled love for me. I would like to put it all on you. Make it simple. Have the beginning we never quite had, I was not aware of. The middle I knew and you told me often could not last. The end that came in agonising bits. But it is not like that at all. It is all messed up like the messes I used to hear adult life is made up of.
Some of the end seemed like a beginning. As we made impossible promises, meaning them in the whispered lip to lip confessions. The middle was like it was already over sometimes, you on the phone explaining to him why you would be late but you were coming home and you could have more time together with him because this conference was finally done with. The beginning was like mere courtesy, what could come of chatting over a meal in a restaurant we did not frequent so much and were unlikely to come back to, we were just being polite.
I have been afraid of that since you. Mere public politeness. How could I have known a hullo, because I was struck by the unusual smoothness of your baby fat face, could lead to this? How could I have known the good girl in you everyone worshipped liked smoking secretly this thing I shared with no one, had never, since my truant secondary school years? That our addictions would be more binds? That I could begin to think, Oh God was I mad?, this is it? Is this what they mean when those silly reach-me-down romantics insist there is a one? All adult wisdom may insist you can be happy with anyone but there is a one? The tragedy of it all is you know when sometimes you have lost them? Like the second cup of crappy coffee has you spitting in the sink, trying to recreate the calculations of the first you made?
Footloose wanderer, you wanted permanence for the first time. You told me some things I still think about now. With a wry smile. A tear at the corner of my eye that will never fall. Because I don’t cry for anyone, not even myself. ‘I worry when you are out. When you are not with me. That has never happened to me. I have never asked a guy where he is.’
This is how I deal with it. This is how I get through day by day. This is how I bear with it all. I tell myself it was all a physical thing. Nothing more. We were animals with each other. That’s all it was. You let me do to you things I will never do with anyone. Let me see and touch, like no decent woman would/should, and there was no shame. You got me to relinquish control, surrender, swearing worse than Men At Work labourers, vulgarities I did not know I knew. You can’t have a lifetime on the physical. You’ve got to be able to intellectually chat, come from backgrounds that somehow match, one of you has got to lead and the other follow. You cannot live like horny teenagers forever. The teenage age passes, responsibilities come. I put it that way. I deal with it like that.
Then why do you still plague me??? Like a man with a conscience and his first murder committed for the greater good? Why are you still in my side view mirror? I have gone miles and miles, I have more to go. I will go them. Be gone, ghost! You’re the past! You’re in the past. I wish you would go. Please go. There is supposed to be a point of no return. Everyone says so.