Late nights are good for remembering what I've forgotten. They're good for reading and writing, re-discovering parts of myself I've lost touch with, or suddenly recalling that thing I wish to forget.
I often sit here and unexpectedly find myself in the company of memories of warm nights I thought--or maybe hoped--would never end. I wish, again, that he were at my fingertips once more, that my eyes could memorize the way he smiles, and my ears could hear his heartbeat. Then I realize how empty those memories feel now, like shells of the actual moments, with no hope of ever having even the faintest echo of what I thought the moments meant. Then I remember why they're memories and not live moments anymore. Suddenly, all of that world feels cold, grey, and dead. It's almost like it was all just pretend--make-believe we fooled ourselves into thinking had a chance. I just didn't want to let go. Maybe neither of us wanted to let go, because letting go sometimes feels like admitting defeat and we both know we're too stubborn to admit we're wrong.
So here I am now, after the moments were wrenched from me, after I realized we were defeated, after I realized a white flag was the only option. I've realized now that a white flag isn't even an option. It's come down to amputation, to cutting out the unhealthy parts. It wasn't really him that was unhealthy, or even "us." The sickly part was my secret priorities. I'd somehow managed to adjust my magnetization so that my orbit sent me around him instead of anything else. For the better part of high school, he was a priority. Not that guys shouldn't be priorities, but they shouldn't be that forefront when you're still in school. He was, basically, my world.
Habits die hard. I'm still here, fighting old urges to think like life still tilts his direction. It's a hard battle sometimes. It's most difficult when I'm sitting here, at night, remembering what I've forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment