How do we move past the illusion of a perfect memory?
We could have been a power couple. We were similar in our difficult backgrounds and upbringings, yet we still made ourselves “traditionally successful.” You were strong, caring, and sweet. But you, well, you just couldn’t talk to me.
I imagine that I wasn’t unique in the way that you had such difficulty expressing yourself. You were often silent, reticent, when you just had a hint of doubt.
Instead of dealing with your problems, you covered them. You replaced them with your toys, your small obsessions, and hobbies.
I lobbied for us with all that I had within myself to push for you, to push for us. I waited for you. And I wondered if you’d ever come to dig me from the hole that you dropped me in after your first disappearance. Or was it your second, the third? I can’t remember.
You were all that I thought I’d ever want or need in a man sans your disappearing acts that, admittedly, I allowed. I wanted to wait for you and give you time and space, but Grace was just not on my side those days.
Because being with you lifted me so high, too high. To a place that I had never experienced or even wanted to go. I guess you couldn’t conceptualize how your actions made me feel because you never gave yourself permission to truly be vulnerable with me. I somehow ended up as your rag doll, your plaything.
And honestly, it’s getting a little harder to move passed whom you once were to me. The time before I fell so abruptly into this hole where you left me is getting harder for me to unsee. I tend to remember you as you were when we met. You were decidedly calm, composed, and gentle. You were masculine in a way that wasn’t overbearing, but comforting. You checked on me constantly, read my movements, and responded. How could you be the same person who left me buried underneath a confusion of emotions and despondent? Some part of me can’t let go of this perfect illusion that I have of you. The thought of you and us is a repetitive intrusion that warms my heart just a little before it drops it again, making it crack just a little more, abusing its integrity from: Each. Passing. Thought. Your near perfect memory.
If I manage to believe that there is a silver lining in all things, I’d have to say that you taught me that I could fall again. Retrospectively, if the time comes with yet another man, next time, I’ll allow myself to float, not fall, so that I land just a little more gracefully.
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