It has been a year since we stopped speaking; you checked out emotionally 42 days before that.
Funny, 42 is the number your favorite baseball player of all time wore…this is what thinking about you is like. Broken pieces that no longer fit together to form a cohesive whole.
Punctuated by the random and I cannot bring myself to paint you with the black tar you deserve.
You married her 8 months ago, yet neither can nor will acknowledge it. Perhaps you do to each other? Is she your only or one of others?
You made me feel as if I were the only one. I felt like a glamourous star of the silver screen back in the Golden Age of Hollywood with you: flowing tresses, blood red lips, sultry eyes.
You made me feel as if I were an innocent, yet sexy child, on the precipice of learning all that was worldly.
The reality is I was just me: slightly awkward, slightly insecure and an amateur thrust in the spotlight on improv night. You were so good at weaving fantasy and illusion into a shiny sparkly cloth.
Yet there was happiness: pure and shining but I now see the vague shadows in the corners.
Unlike Him, you do not pop up at inopportune times; you are constantly with me.
When I bathe, when I dress, when I lay with others….yes, there are others but you are my only.
And that is a lie…I have no only. I have the love I hold for the illusions. I don’t want you to return. I want my illusion back.
People say I stalk you but I don’t…I lurk. I search for clues. Of what I don’t know.
I see the glimpses of white beneath your shirts and I feel the sting of the lies. The garments. I hate them.
They tell more of a truth than the pictures that are posted; they tell me who you are, what you believe. They tell me we can never be and probably never were.
And I wonder are you now living the lie or was I the lie? Because being with you was like a 1000 truths.
I miss them all, the truth and the lies and the realities and the fantasies that were you. That were us.
I feel as if I am being jerked and thrust through life now, like a puppet being maneuvered by an unseen Master; yet I move on, I move forward without you. Because it just feels as if you are still here…you aren’t.
In my dreams, you are there and answering my questions. In dreams, I beat you up and you hold my wrists while kissing my forehead. In dreams, you tell me you understand, you are sorry and I hear your voice break with regret. In my dreams, I never go too far and you appreciate my passion, however it is expressed. In my dreams, it is I you love.
But when I wake, I lose you all over again. And I realize the knife never left, I am just used to its pain now.