The Breakup

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When I was little, I used to coat my hands with glue, impatiently waiting for it to dry, to then peel, inch by inch, the now clear substance,  delicately, yet cheaply imprinted with my unique set of lines.This act was done slowly, as it felt best when you got all of it off in one peel.

Apparently, that lesson didn’t translate.

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This is how it works, right?

You meet someone, and somehow, they’re the one person that doesn’t annoy you. Doesn’t make you want to shoot yourself in the head. Somehow, you want to be around them, maybe even more than they want to be around you (or maybe not, but you certainly can’t stop thinking about it, either way) and whatever, all the sudden, you’re in love. Your life is embedded, so tightly, with someone else’s. Every moment, every action, a counteraction created for your new half heart.  A whole new thought process: mornings, nights, routines, day in and day out, year after year. You know their breath and the way they murmur in their sleep and that look they get when they’re just one drink over the edge. When they’re anxious, or angry, or just tolerating your bullshit. The way they look when they’re appreciating you and the way they look when you rip their heart out. You know the intricacies of their everything, and love everything despite it. Every ounce of breath you breathe is with your whole, new heart.

And then, they’re just not there. They’re not there when you wake up and they’re not there when you go to sleep. Sometimes, you email – but really that’s just if one of you are feeling weak. That’s what that is, right? Because you wanted this. And really what it is is that you no longer know each other. That you’re strangers, you’re completely unknown to each other. And life events will happen and things will come and you will never know, because you aren’t friends. You’re probably not even acquaintances.

And ya, you can think you’ll always have that time and it was so special what you shared. And yes, whatever, it was. But most of the time, you’re just not sure if that’s going to be enough. Memories fade and life goes on, and it’s all your fault, because you wanted this. Because he hurt you too much to forget, but who were you to not forget? You seem to try to forget everything else.

Is it a matter of waiting for the glue to dry? Did you apply too much? The many layers, now indistinguishable with your own flesh, just stack and stack upon dry hands. It weighs you down, the remnants get on everything and now your whole life is stick with memories you just can’t peel away.

There’s a hole where you used to be. I keep walking around it in circles, peering farther over the ledge as the moments pass. There is atonement at the bottom, but I can’t see it.

 

 

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