One year and a day has passed since I broke a girl's heart.
How can I say that? Fuck. It makes me sound… conceited, smug perhaps. I have no idea if it's true, either. That is the thing about ending relationships, you don't get much of a debriefing. What then? One year ago I broke something. I suppose I don't know what it was that I broke, nor how big or important it might have been.
How can I say that? Fuck. It makes me sound… conceited, smug perhaps. I have no idea if it's true, either. That is the thing about ending relationships, you don't get much of a debriefing. What then? One year ago I broke something. I suppose I don't know what it was that I broke, nor how big or important it might have been.
Ah yes, we are there. It didn’t take long. Might have been. It might have been something, mightn't it?
What is the point of this? Why, my words -- when they are honest -- seem
rather mundane, without flourish. It is
in other places, make-believe ones, that I manage to convey something, to tell a story I might myself enjoy rereading. Here I am in the most alone place and so also the
most true. Here phrases fall apart before they have begun. Leaving me with clichés, curses and – it
seems – little character.
The vitriole came later. Though it wasn't much. A letter: I was accused of a thing or two. No screams were screamed; no books were thrown. Yet... yet, I am somehow, one year on, hung up on this. Like my jumper is caught on a neverending tree snag. As I pull at it it unravels it a little, pulls free for a moment, then unravels again. What is this nonsense. The point is, one year on, she sure does still have some power over me. An interesting sort. Not the 'what would that be like' sort. I have been there. Is there something unfinished, something I needed to say or do or try? Is it just that, after all this, I still fancy her. Am I in love with her? Do I want somehow to realise all of the possible relationships I ever could have with every girl I have a crush on? Perhaps.
The vitriole came later. Though it wasn't much. A letter: I was accused of a thing or two. No screams were screamed; no books were thrown. Yet... yet, I am somehow, one year on, hung up on this. Like my jumper is caught on a neverending tree snag. As I pull at it it unravels it a little, pulls free for a moment, then unravels again. What is this nonsense. The point is, one year on, she sure does still have some power over me. An interesting sort. Not the 'what would that be like' sort. I have been there. Is there something unfinished, something I needed to say or do or try? Is it just that, after all this, I still fancy her. Am I in love with her? Do I want somehow to realise all of the possible relationships I ever could have with every girl I have a crush on? Perhaps.
But I digress. Perhaps because I am reluctant to stick to
any topic. So let’s go. Come on. The
break up. We sat down in a pub and I told her I had feelings for someone else. She took it well at the time. We walked out the pub, up the street until her bus stop and as I moved to hug her she allowed it, albeit awkwardly, with the quiet words
"oh, ok"
and I walked away.
"oh, ok"
and I walked away.
No comments:
Post a Comment