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You said the most cliche things of all the day we said goodbye. “It’s not goodbye, I’ll be seeing you again.” In the moment, it seems so sweet and sincere, but as you look back at it now, you realize it was only as I said before- a cliche thing. I haven’t seen you since and your voice has become yet another distant memory.

Sometimes I remember the way you smiled so largely as I walked through the airport terminal, seeing you for the first time in months. I was nervous and that nervousness made me hesitate at the sight of you. I can think now of how cute you looked, standing there, smile and all, but during that moment I felt nothing, but scared. 

If I were to see you yet again, I wouldn’t know what to do. Should I embrace you, as I wish I had done at the airport? Or would I simply walk away without a word, as I should have the last time we broke.


Just like your parents used to say, “Not everything is about you.”

Every word that I say isn’t said for you and every time my legs shake it is not me quivering at your touch. I could say that once upon a time it was all meant for you, but if you believe that after all this time that is still the case, you are far more naive than I could have imagined.

You and I are so routine; I’ve just been going with the motion because it is easier than picking up and starting anew.

You aren’t the only man I kiss; you weren’t the first nor will you be the last. Once upon a time you may have been my all, but the fragment of my heart you still possess has become so small.



Here’s to another long night. He’s slurring drunken words into my ear as though he were the most romantic poet to walk the earth. As he tries his best to stand straight, I feel as though my world is crashing down. He’s just a lush, I remind myself, by morning we’ll be fine. By morning I’ll kiss you goodbye before your eyes open.

I won’t sleep a wink; instead, I’ll toss and turn for the remaining hours of the night. Laying in the same spot I’ve been occupying for months- the left side, nuzzled up against you- which once felt like heaven, but now reminds me that I’ve overstayed my welcome.

Even in this moment, looking at your glossy, drunken eyes, I can tell even you can see that things have changed. I’, not the same lady you swept off her feet and we both know she isn’t coming back. The air keeps getting thicker between us and my heart, more heavy. 

I remember when you thought my quirks and flaws were something to admire, even my crooked teeth, but now all they seem to do is disgust you. Here I am, being selfish and senile, acting as though I’m not the one who was let down by all of our expectations. Your mere existence has begun to let me down, but is it even fair to blame you for such a thing? We were promised the world, but were left with a speck of dust.

You once had my heart beating a thousand times a minute, but now it’s gotten so old and grey that it won’t budge at all. I just know that if I don’t leave now, I’ll end up just as old, grey, and stuck.

It’s a scary thing, to walk away. Even if you’ve been drained of all you have, it still pains you to know that this is it. There is no tomorrow, no future, no more love for the two of us. I’ve got to face the facts and say goodbye, with hopes that someday I’ll learn to fall in love again.

She awakes suddenly as a door in the house slams shut. She hates waking up so abruptly, it always puts her in a grumpy mood. Her tiny hands rub her eyes, trying to see straight. Reaching around for her glasses so the world can cease to be blurry for a while. The room is brightly lit and she wonders how long she has slept for. The nights have been long since she has had no one to hold her until she falls asleep, but she recently picked up a kitten at the pound so she could have some sort of companion. Unfortunately, it seems to be a stubborn little kitty and he never wants to lay by her for long at night, much like the man she used to share the bed with. She attempted to pet the soft fur of the kitten, but he scratches her before she even gets close, so she climbs off of bed and onto the cold hardwood floor and decides to go make a cup of coffee. The house is silent and she is assuming all of her roommates have already been long gone, going through their usual, unsatisfying routines. The silence is always a little bit frightening and a little bit comforting and this morning it is one of comfort. The only noise  she hears is the coffee brewing and her fingers impatiently tapping on the countertop. She always seems to be waiting for something.


As she sips her coffee (in which she added just the right amount of cream and sugar) she skims through one of the magazines her roommates have left on the table. Nothing catches her interest, but she tries to focus anyway. She knows that if she doesn’t have something tangible in front of her to look at her mind will kick into gear and the rest of her day will be spent thinking, thinking, thinking of the man who has left for good. It has been nearly three weeks since she last saw him, but it feels like just yesterday when she kissed him. She can practically feel the scruff on his face on her fingertips. No, no, girl, focus on the things you are touching now. The smoothness of the magazine paper, the warm coffee cup; anything but the memory of his scruff. The door has been opened and she knows she won’t be able to stop thinking about him, but she knows that she can’t spend another day in her room, sprawled across the bed, watching the saddest movies she can find. She needs to do something else; she cannot let the memory of him consume her. He has consumed her for far too long now.


The thought of sitting still for another day is almost sickening to her now. She used to be such a happy girl, this one, until she fell in love. She never thought she would see the day that she would be vulnerable for another human being, but it came and went faster than she could have dreamed. She needs to get back to her happy place, she needs to go and find that place, or any place without him. His memory, his scent, his touch, lingers all around her. She knows she should hate feeling the way that she does and she does want to get better, but it is so hard for her to grasp the reality of what happened. She can’t even remember the details anymore, she can only think of how much he had changed her. She decides it is time to get off of the chair and she walks the cold floor the way back to her room. For the first time in three weeks, she decides she has to make herself presentable and go back into the world. Though she doesn’t know what awaits her, she knows she has to face reality.


She gets into her favorite dress and the shoes to match, but before she heads out of the door she leaves her kitten some food. She wonders if today is the day she will finally decide on a name for him, but since she still is unsure, she continues to call him “Kitty.” The house, still bright and silent, creaks as she makes her way out of the front door. The air feels good; it is cold, but not windy. She thinks she sees him out of the corner of her eye and her heart sinks instantly to her stomach. She closes her eyes for a moment, but when she opens them there is no one there. Just wishful thinking, as always. She feels the urge to run back inside and crawl into her haven, but she keeps on moving forward down the street. She keeps on moving forward.


Inspiration is no longer coming easy to me. It isn’t moving as fast as a raging river, but so slow that time itself does not seem to be moving. I am sitting here, in front of this pen and paper and my mind is sluggish and drowsy, while I am wide awake. I keep thinking of you.

Your eyes.
Your mouth and that smile.
Your touch and how it felt like the first time every time.

I want to dissect my brain and find the part where the memories of you are kept together. I want to cut you out of it, put you in a jar, and save you for later. I don’t want to be thinking about you right now because you aren’t here. You are nowhere near here and the only reason for that is my own doing. I picked up and moved away, thinking that I could find myself satisfied somewhere else, but we both know that isn’t the case.

There have been other men since the last time our lips touched. Those men gave me pleasure and in those moments of hips thrusting, you weren’t there. It was probably the only time you weren’t parading your existence around my consciousness. All the other moments, though, you were there.

While I showered in the morning.
While I tried to carry conversations with dull men.
While I went grocery shopping.
While I drove each and every mile away from you.

I think I’ll just continue to sit here, in front of this pen and paper. Perhaps I will write you down; every single thing about you down. All the corners of your body, all the movements of your soul. Maybe I’ll be able to do this, to finally let myself drown in you, but I don’t think there are enough sheets of paper for me to complete everything I have ever thought about you.

There is familiar ache in my heart, in my body, in my bones. I have not felt it for quite some time and deep down I never wanted it to come back. Even if that meant I would never feel so strongly for someone that I would never ache for them… I never wanted it to come back. It has stuck its sad, solemn head from underneath the covers and it is taking over every atom that makes up who I am. Who am I? Nowadays, I cannot tell. I cannot decipher any of my feelings and I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me through the mirror. Her eyes look so empty, her hair so ruffled, her face so pale. That cannot be me; no way, no how. Though I have never been conceited, I cannot take my eyes away from the mirror; away from the girl who looks like she is longing for something that she will never be able to attain again.

That, and only that, is the reason I know that that woman, so empty and callous, is I. It is I who has gotten so pale, so ruffled, so empty. I can’t stop longing for something, for someone, for you. But where have you gone? You have not gone anywhere, have you? It was me who left you; it was me who walked aboard that airplane and flew away, never wanting to look back. I thought that taking myself out of our horrid love story would make everything alright, that the ache I had felt at the time would be forever gone. What was that ache? I vaguely remember wanting more from you. Perhaps it wasn’t that I wanted more, though, perhaps I wanted to mean more to you. I felt like I could never make an impact in your life or your heart, but I blamed it on me, wanting more from you. I remember the morning that I left you, asleep on your side of the bed, probably dreaming of nothing and everything at all.

I will never know if you tried to get ahold of me after I walked away from everything. I left my cell phone at a charging station at the airport, thinking perhaps someone else could use it more than I could. I cancelled my phone plan a week later and never looked at the bill to see if you had even picked up the phone to look for me. Did you look for me? Perhaps you found someone else while on the search for the woman who left you on a cold, rainy morning. Perhaps, like my paranoid thoughts led me to believe, you didn’t care much if I stayed or left. Perhaps you didn’t give my leaving a second thought. I imagine you carrying on with your day, the only sorrow you feel is that I was no longer there to bring books home from the local library.

I remember you didn’t read one single book until I brought some home. You had always seen me reading late at night while you were busy on your favored computer, but you never asked me what it was I was looking for in all of those books. After I left a pile of novels, large and small, on my bedside while I left for a week to see my family (I was really just hoping you’d miss me, you know). I noticed the books were sprawled all around our apartment. In the bathroom, in the kitchen, beside the couch, in the bed where I would have been. You didn’t try to converse with me about what you found in the books, you only told me that you noticed the books were due yesterday, but you didn’t get a chance to do me a favor and drop them off. I wonder, what did you find?

Aching. Everything is aching. It hasn’t been more than a few months since I left, finding myself hundreds of miles away, but it feels like it has been forever. It feels like it has been years since I last kissed those lips of yours or since you caressed my entire body with your hands. I always loved your hands, so strong and masculine. The hands that would shut me out, closing the door to your study when you tired of me. The hands that would hold my own during a scary movie or a rainy, cold walk home. I look at my own hands, wondering what would have happened if I stayed.

If I fought for you, would you have realized how much you meant to me? Would you have opened your heart, even just a little bit, so I could have a peak inside? I know I could always come back and knock at your door, I would see then, in your eyes, if you felt relief that I had finally returned or confusion at the fact that I was standing in front of you. Sometimes the ache inside of me wants to go back to you, to go back to our bed we once shared, to kiss those all familiar lips, but I will never bring myself to do it. It is a big world out there, and though that fact alone makes me ache even more, I know I am better off without you, waiting for a person who would ache for me.

“She loves me, she loves me not.”

You’d be better off pulling away each petal of every flower in all fields of the world than waiting for me to decide. My thoughts are inconsistent with my heart, my heart with my soul. What is a girl to do? It’s quite easy to lie; attach a smile to any meaningless word that comes out of my mouth and I’ve got you in the palm of my hand. I’ll eat you up and tease you so.

What is love? I long to find out, but with all these inconsistencies how will I ever know? When a man tells me he loves me, I don’t want to appear speechless (in awe at how vulnerable a man can be and how quickly he thinks he means these words) so I say it back to him with a smile he so easily believes.

This world has become so impersonal that everyone is looking for love and companionship, hoping it will come easy to them in a society that works them to the bone. No man will ever work me to the bone, fearing that the last petal will contain the fourth, dreadful word. If only they knew that I keep adding petals to our flower, the end is nowhere near. Though I am not loving, I am observing. If I can’t feel the passion expected of me, I’ll at least see how it makes even a brave man act.

Yet the more I see, the more I get turned off of love and the likes of it. I believe that what was once an effortless thing has turned into a tiring matter; it is almost tiring just to watch. I’ve exhausted myself before I even started the game, so honestly, why even try?

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