I read something I wrote for you the other day. It all came bubbling up inside. Sweet and salty both.
I don’t know where you are now. The last time I talked to you was three years ago. The last time before then was four years prior. I suppose I’m due for an empty call soon from the stranger you are now. Full of dodging and hindsight and promises. I’ll believe you when I see some action.
Oh, but once I loved you, sun moon stars. I loved you so much. I’d have done anything for you. And I did, I did do anything for you. Things I’m not proud of. Things I hate telling people I did. I remember going places with you–physically and emotionally–that made me feel so small and so weak. I remember feeling so deserted, and like you’d deserted yourself. God, like you were a hollow man. Like there was nothing left. Just a husk. If I grabbed you hard enough you’d crumple. But feeling like if I waited long enough, maybe you’d pour yourself back in there, inside your own skin and it’d be okay again.
Oh, but once I loved you so much, such a swollen hurting painful love. Once we had such magic together and it felt so different. So alive, like the relationship itself was an organism. It was tangible. It was so powerful then that I would go back and take pieces of the beginning and stuff them in the cracks of the relationship it had become when it started to fail. I’d spackle the everyday with past moonbeams and whispers and promises, as if that would dry my tears, as if that would bring you back when you disappeared. The past can’t fix the present. The person you were couldn’t help the person you became.
Oh, but once, once we were so in love and your voice would make me tingle and sweat and full of frenzy. You were someone I could trust and depend on. You may have never fully understood me, but you tried, and you accepted that we were different. You were kind. You were gentle. I was present, but I was there for myself, too. I didn’t try to live your life for you. I didn’t feel I had to. Then you drank from the well of anger and remembered that you liked it. With every draught again your ears rang so loudly with the song that told you didn’t have to be responsible for anything anymore. I watched you go quickly from someone I could depend on to someone dependent. And you watched me go from someone you loved to a target. Someone else to blame.
And there are strange levels of truth and lies, stratified. You and I explored them together and separate, whether we wanted to–or rather, knew we wanted to. And the lies, they infected me, even when I knew they were lies. You had known me so well, you knew the best way to infect me when you became my worst enemy. When I didn’t give you what you wanted anymore, the venom. I had never imagined that you would be capable of hurting me so much. I don’t think you did, either.
But I read something I wrote for you the other day. And I loved you so much then. So much love.
I wonder if I’ll ever love anyone that much ever again.