How do you thank someone for eroding you? Do you send flowers? Edible Arrangements?
Do you write a long letter & obsess over the grammar for hours?
I don't really know. I'm trying to decide but I ...... can't seem to find footing
in the dimly lit alley between gratitude & blind rage.
Meandering, empty, maybe it'a all in your head, love is the most exhausting of them all.
Love exhibits a dream-like quality once it's gone. You forget how you fell in the first place,
it all seems reminiscent of Alice's slip into the rabbit hole. Perhaps in going over scenarios so many
times you conveniently forget a stinging string of words spewed in your direction. You caress memories
so deeply, that even the painful ones feel like sweet nothings. Your memory lane reels replaying themselves make quite the masochist out of you.
You over-think and you over-blink and you over-squint to see if maybe he'd let you in a little deeper.
But he never does. So you panic.
You camp outside of his walls built so high they converse with clouds during storms.
You soften the blow, you nurse his immaturity and mend his shortcomings.
You spend hours on a park bench navigating fake realities, like a game of the Sims but the daydream compilation version.
In this way, you turn into architects.
For him. It's an escape from his tired, complacent, but comfortable relationship.
But you, you haven't escaped at all, in fact every time you do this with him, you arrive, in all your fabulousness & grandeur.
Then the sun sets, he goes home, and you text until Friday comes around
& it's time to wear your single girl gown
and stare enviously at her shiny girlfriend crown ...... even though you hope, for him,
her crown has lost it's luster.
You let him play in your hair, swim in your secrets. You let him keep stupid trinkets.
He toys with your bobby spin slowly
between his fingers while she's in the shower. You try to find holes in his
cornea you could sleep through so when you aren't
around anymore & she's looking at him she finds you. Your love for him is the
reason airlines advise you put on your own oxygen mask
first & he smells that. Like a crazed homicidal sociopath he scavenges for the best artillery
and finally blows his own portion of your mental real estate
to pieces. Brings popcorn just in case he gets hungry while your precious pink matter splatters.
After this said explosion, you release him. You try to exit gracefully but, like most men his age,
he had issues with premature detachment. You wallow in disappointment
and all thoughts of him make you feel like you're perpetually drowning. Could you imagine what that feels like? To drown, perpetually? I wouldn't wish it on my killer.
Even though you release him, the fool will come back. Sometimes it will be days, weeks, months, but as
sure as Autumn in October, for him it will never be over. He will periodically
send a text whne his night turns into morning, and he's left with only the memory of your scent to console him.
You won't hope to slither into his cornea and call his pupils home anymore,
because he will project you onto every woman who hands herself over just to receive his polyester touch.
When time grayscale's my hair, and you finally give in to the fact that you're balding, I'll catch the slight
interruption in your gaze when you say "Your husband is a lucky man". In that moment,
I'll know you finally felt all the pain I've had to withstand.
How do you thank someone for eroding you? Nothing to do but let love teach them.
Love knows no reason ... It proceeds without caution like tsunami
waves tonguing down a skyscraper's lobby.
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