I’m sorry she never replied, but I’m also glad you figured out that she doesn’t owe you an answer. I think that says a lot about how much you’ve grown and how far you’ve come as a person.
It was no small step to reach out after all this time and the things you’ve been through together. I think you did the right thing cause of the way things ended. Offering to make amends by putting your feelings out there was more generous than I’d expect of anyone.
After all, you never deserved to be led on like that. I wish I could explain why she didn’t give you the space you needed at first. I’m sorry you weren’t strong enough at the time to stand up for yourself, but it doesn’t mean you deserved it. It wasn’t fair. You were lonely and vulnerable and it was the last thing your heart needed to heal. I don’t blame you for having a hard time getting over her after that.
That’s why you had every right to ask for another break. Needing it was never a reflection or judgment on who she was. Just because she didn’t like it doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. In fact, she should have respected you and your request instead of getting upset or taking it as a valuation on her as a person.
I’m sorry she never acknowledged your pain or her role in it. I’m sorry part of you still feels so badly messed up. I’m sorry you never had a chance to tell her.
The fact that you haven’t heard back is likely a sign of how much she truly cares about you. That doesn’t mean you have to stop loving her. Your feelings are completely valid. It’s okay to love someone from a distance. It doesn’t make you a bad partner or person.
So take as much time as you need. There’s no right or wrong way to mourn the end of a relationship.
That’s how you described yourself, soon after your dad died. A girl lost in grief, trying to drink and smoke and work and fuck her way out. Living her life like she was the only one who hadn’t figured out what to do with it.
It’s hard to imagine you being so sad once. Or sad at all, and secure enough to admit loneliness. You even had the objectiveness to know that you shrank from others even though you didn’t make yourself happy. That’s why I keep going through these entries in your old blog. Not just a dream journal, but a journal of dreams. Before you became trapped in a domestic life and your heart turned into a lump of stone.
Continue reading “a reckless careening of emotions and actions”…
I don’t know how to tell my friends about you. What am I supposed to say? That all we shared was some tea and talk and those four hours are reason I still believe in chemistry after all the practical failings of my past relationships? And how do I bring you up, now that it’s been so long I wonder if you even remember me?
Perhaps you wouldn’t be in my mind so often if Green Eyes wasn’t one of my favourite songs. It always takes me back to those days on the mend, when all I had was your brother — singing with a voice like it was soaked in Scotch and left to dry on a line in winter — to give me something new to love. You were the one to give me something to be excited about when it felt like nothing mattered anymore, and just as much became an inextricable part of that time.
That’s why I haven’t forgotten you. That’s why I never will.
I can still see the cavalier way you’d toss your curly hair over your head every now and then, as if you were perpetually deciding how best to wear it. I’ve come to appreciate that kind of casual comeliness, and the fact that you were so unaware of it made it all the more endearing.
We were supposed to start a band of our own. I’d pick up keyboard or cello if you wanted to stick with guitar, we’d do covers of Andrew Vincent, open for house shows, and get signed to Kelp some day. Instead, all I have is a picture of you dancing at the Raw Sugar, and what if forever on my lips.
I may hardly know you, but the truth is I miss you. I still want you in my life. I want to know where you’ve been and who you’ve loved, what you’re dancing to and how else your creativity has taken form. But all I can do is wonder if our paths will ever cross again.
That little furrow was there because you weren’t. That’s why you never saw it, of course. You must think I hate you cause it was the only thing I couldn’t help her with myself. But I could never hate you. You gave her what she wanted. In the end, that’s all I really wanted too.
I knew it was serious when I saw your umbrella under her bed, back when she hid those kinds of things for my sake. You never realized she only took it as an excuse to see you again (not because she was particularly scared of getting her merino socks wet), the same way you never realized how easy it all was for you. That was a sign that you were the right one. I knew it before she did.
If only there was a bit of mystery left in you. Instead, I had you pegged by the second night, and all I can tell people is that you’re a nice guy, when I want to say you’re an artist, a lover, a fighter, a worthy rival, a slayer of insecurities, a breaker of barriers, a testament to testosterone, a hero among men. She deserves more than the painfully pedestrian life you’ve given her, but I know she’s had enough of heartbreak to think that normal is hard enough to come by. And so I’ve learned that a person’s happiness is all that matters, not the dreams you have for them. I guess it’s hard to give up those dreams when you’re part of them yourself.
I want to say I’m leaving for some noble reason of great importance, but it’s really because there’s nothing left for me in this little town. I used to believe I could escape; eventually I realized you can’t outrun your memories. Now I’m just trying to figure out where I belong. She was all I knew for so long, and now that life is gone.
And so I must tread carefully with new lovers; it’s impossible for me to tell my story without that part of my past. That’s why I wonder what she told you about me, about us. About losing feeling in her face and letters you wouldn’t know how to write. If she intentionally left anything out, or whether our time was even worth mentioning. But the past is still the past, and that’s the only reason I can write a letter now to the man who saved her without ever knowing it.
He’s a great guy who looks particularly nice in a skinny tie. His deep, smokey eyes seem to slay every woman he meets, and even the ones he hasn’t yet. There’s a strapping masculinity that you like, carried in the angles of his face, but a gentle smile reveals his true personality.
He’s intelligent enough to challenge that mind of yours, but so down-to-earth that you’d never feel inadequate. He’s constantly creative and a musical genius, and I know you’d appreciate his work as much as he’d appreciate yours, even if they’re in different mediums. He can let loose and have a great time, but he’s responsible enough to know when to stop. He’s confident, but modest. Funny without being crude or clownish. Thoughtful and kind. Generous with his time, his thoughts, his possessions, and his life. He’s the total package, but most important of all, I know he’d make you happy.
And while I’ve always been unbearably jealous when I think of you with anyone else (and maybe I chose him cause I like to think he reminds me of myself), he’s the only guy I wouldn’t mind you being with if it can’t be me, cause it would be such a waste otherwise.