Fragments of my heart are still floating around. On the internet cloud somewhere, a love letter that he rejected, or refused to read. Half-finished posts, about tender moments, half-lived. I can almost believe now, they were imagined. slivers of paper, or napkins, with childish poems, immature haikus, bittersweet in their honesty and fragility.
I don’t write them anymore, though I haven’t forgotten the taste of pain. I can still feel it, when it rains, when I hear a certain phrase, or see the sour face of Theresa May, who reminds me of the foolish Brits. When I get trouble from my awfully unreliable British car, that I share half the time with the mechanic, as my almost lover put it in his words. The memory arrives, unexpected and unwelcome, it fractures my days, then departs. I know that it will do its damage again, some other time.
And I still haven’t found an answer to the biggest question. What is it that makes us love, so utterly and desperately? How does the feeling survive his near complete absence from my life ? And why do I still miss him, when lately I was only punished for caring? Why did I so easily trade hurt pride for resignation, and anger for forgiveness and compassion?
True love has chosen me, robbed me of pride and anger, and displaced my soul. Today I feel like a stranger in all the places that welcomed me in the past. Perhaps it is my cue to move on. I came here for love, and perhaps I will leave out of love too.