mostly nonsense

CCLXI.

There are things I’m afraid to ask, like why now and not then or does this mean two cemeteries

No one doesn’t notice when they stop being loved. It’s a gaping hole with an angry neon sign, flashing all the fucking time. We want to hear “I love you, and I’m proud of you”, but we can’t all say it. It is time to move past platitudes, like “I am a hurricane, and you are the only one who knows how to brave the storm”. Like “our entire job on this planet is to be light”. Like, I am so sick of reading between the lines of your deficiencies.

I don’t have time anymore to be sad, anyway. Not about everything at once. Better to let everything fall apart - or rather, snap cleanly like Lego pieces. You go one way, and I’ll go another. His and hers. Maybe later there will be a playing of old Sonny & Cher songs and sorting old photos and weeping. Maybe that would just be a waste of one more evening. Maybe we’re out of time to waste.

People are people are just people. Moving past the generalizations: this particular love story, at this particular time, between these particular people, is over. There aren’t any further pages. Twenty-two years: a new record. Can you still want to hold someone’s hand after you’ve watched them deal with two-point-two decades of shit?

“Please keep in touch” isn’t secret code for anything but please keep in touch. Call me and tell me whether you are sad, and whether it is the kind of sadness that tightens and tugs and turns you into someone you don’t like. Don’t forget to ask me the same, once in a while. I want you to be the one I dance with at my wedding to an old song that makes us cry, but I can’t want that all on my own.

Did you ever stop to think maybe I’d outgrow you?

I’m out of time to waste.