This is a walk inside my heart’s monologue.
After two years in the apartment where we’ve made a home, tomorrow I am supposed to help you with your new place. Your new place. How stark and cold those words are. I’ve always said and kept my word that I cannot be friends with my exes. But you are not them, you’re you. You, with the new place to move into tomorrow. How can I not remain at least friends with you? You know me best. You are my longest romantic relationship, although there is hardly anything romantic in it anymore. No more hugs and slides of hands over one another, no pet names or morning rituals. We may have a few strong moments of passion at 4am but you won’t kiss me on the mouth any longer.
Space.
And here I thought we were fine! Just going along like every other long-term couple, hitting a rut here, breaking out of it there. That is until one eventful Friday night two weeks ago that changed my life. Another little argument about finances, you said something that I wrongly interpreted as insulting to me, I pick at the fight, it escalates and where I think it will again diffuse like all the others, you go and stay the night, and the following week, in a hotel. For space to think. We had not spent so many nights apart since before we got together those years ago. I never knew that dumb full-size bed was so freaking big when empty.
Our short courtship was intense, passionate and hastened by circumstances. Our highs and lows flipped during our love’s course. I’m not even sure that we are the same people and want the same things. Even still, no one wants to be left. I still want you around but I’m just not entirely sure why. I do know I love you. And that you clearly don’t want me. Our motions and habits have become so intertwined, how the hell do we separate them? Your art on my walls, your dishes in my kitchen, my car keys in your hands, my electric running your computer.
Going to the grocery store is full of maddening painful memories now. Remembering everything you like, little things we joked about, flashes of once great times, even the just plain good times stab like needles. My eyes tear up but I don’t let much fall. I can’t afford it. But still, we had plans, didn’t we? Seventy years were promised and we fizzle with sixty-seven and change left on the tab. I’m not sorry that I won’t put up with being yelled and screamed at but am I your midlife crisis? Are you running for your sake or from boredom.
Do I want you to stay for my sake or to fight boredom. How am I supposed to be nice and smiley when my heart is dark and crankily depressed. Your body warmth and breath are sources of light for me, even if fading. I keep thinking that every thing we do now is for the last time and everything we have done was for the last time, too. You seem protectively shy yet excited about this new chapter opening for you while my happy story is ending. How sad when once true love is truly missing.
