the rolling blues [l.s.]

prologue

Sometimes I wonder what my life would've been without him. Would I still be the boy I was? Reckless and impetuous with no sense of self? Or would I still be here, a shell of the person I used to be? With the same blue eyes and dark feathery hair, but with a lot more weight on my heart, a lot more blood on my hands, and a lot more dark visions pressing against my eyelids every time I shut them?

I like to think sometimes that maybe, just maybe, things could've ended better. That we, him and I, wouldn't have ended in unspoken words and bloodstained skin. Perhaps then, the last letter he wrote me wouldn't break my heart afresh or the chain he'd always wear around his neck, which currently sat on my bedside table, wouldn't mock how we ended things.

The ghost of him still lurks around the place we'd called our safe haven; with the expired bottle of orange juice he loved so much that sat in our fridge and the lingering scent of the cigarettes he'd always smoked — a habit he'd picked up because of me — I could close my eyes and imagine that he was still here. But when I felt the coldness of the place beside me, the absence of the smell of his Chanel perfumes and the quietness of the house without his infectious laugh, I felt empty. The guilt of taking someone so sweet and wholesome, and making him bathe in the chaos that had ensued because of me crushed over me every day, a form of torture itself.

It was my fault, I know it. It had been my stupid mistake, my foolish recklessness that had drained his life until nothing remained but his bloodshot eyes.

Needless to say: I love him. I loved him and I still do even though it's making me lose my fucking mind. The regret and the sorrow still tug at my gut, an eternal reminder of this mess, of losing him, of everything. If we'd ended things on a better note, maybe I would not regret loving him so much and he would not torture himself every day for falling in love with me.