I don't know how to write fiction anymore. I guess sometimes I can manage dots of it, make up a city, or insert a bulletwound.
Say he comes to see you somewhere. An opening night at an art gallery, some quiet music set up in a bar, or in the middle of a park on a Sunday afternoon. It doesn't matter where, all of these are places that have happened before. You think he looks like he's letting himself go, but you don't say this. Instead, "Your hair is getting long," or "Hey, nice jacket."
He has been creating things without you. Nothing terribly large or important, but something about this digs another small hole in you. You were the mirror, the chalkboard, and now these inventions are being made without consultation.
Some days it doesn't matter and this is not a lie. You are tired and he is not there and you have a list of facts but most of them aren't enjoyable so you never take it out of your desk unless you have something new to add.
There are many parts to this. Too much history and too many things that never had a chance to happen. It will be a slow removal.
Hello.
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2 comments:
I got here by starting at the newest entries and moving backwards. I couldn't stop myself.
I've read everything you've written here, kept notes of the ones that resonated loudest in the hollow where my heart was once. Scribbled some lines in sharpie on his skin while he slept next to me, mostly about being glad and afraid and confused and how his hands could be my home, wishing he loved me and another thousand things I crossed out while thanking my stars he sleeps as heavily as he walks.
It's been a cathartic night, and I'm eternally grateful.
Thank you. Truly.
For everything.
I am amazed that you read through so much, and I almost feel like I should apologize. There is nearly five years of writing here, decent and poor, but more than that, there is nearly five years of relationship trysts and healing and failing. I can't even read through all of it without a struggle, so I am in awe that you have made it through all of the posts.
But mostly, these comments kill me, in what I think is a good way. Because you are a stranger and you have told me a little bit and I think that maybe you understand things that most strangers wouldn't, and I want to hug you for your second paragraph, because I understand too.
I received this in my inbox last night, as I was falling asleep to the sounds of a blizzard outside of my windows. Things are hard, lately. So thank you, honestly.
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