I’m walking home from an errand and I can feel the cool, October air seeping through my gloves. It’s barely 7PM but it’s been dark out for a bit. I can’t remember when the days stopped being long. Life was passing quickly back then. I was moving, work was crazy, and you were in the process of leaving- a feeling I saw coming shortly after we met. Your goodness was an omen, and when the bad stuff started surfacing, I couldn’t get stay above it long enough to see the better parts. I stopped tracing the days over in my head. Weeks after it was ended, I still can’t tell if the anxiety I got from being with you was insecurity or intuition.
But I’m not fumbling for an answer. It’s pointless. Even if it wasn’t, it stopped hurting hard enough for me to want to ever find it. I stopped hurting a lot sooner than I thought I would. Even now it only stings when I think about it, and when I think about you. (Which is often enough to write such a thing as this lament. I feel foolish and while I don’t wish you ill of any kind, I do not think you deserve this kind of luxury either.)
But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that your brief presence in my life held some significance, though I’m not sure what it is yet. You didn’t teach me anything that I didn’t know already. You didn’t hold me in such a way that someone hasn’t prior, or that someone won’t eventually. The sex was good but not earth shattering, and the conversations were smooth when I didn’t notice your one foot out the door. I guess what sets you apart is how effortless you were-how easy it was for you to come in and how easy it was for you to leave. How quickly I felt safe with you and how quickly I felt unsteady. You were an elixir and a parasite. It always felt intimate and honest. The hurt felt honest- even though my toxic sensors don’t believe that was the case.
Despite all this, there is a small part of me that wishes that you were still around. It’s simple and unromantic. It doesn’t bother me anymore.