Shirtsleeves

I held on to the words she spoke of. Each and every confession taking its place, anchored down in my throat.
I knew she had expected me to be angry and push her away. But I couldn't. I couldn't bring myself to hurt someone the way she had just admitted to hurting me. Words, shallow explanations, they poured from her mouth while I couldn't form a single one. There's only but one way to tell someone that their love wasn't enough. I was the captain of a sinking boat now.
My face reddened with anger and sadness and her striking blue eyes turned cloudy and cold. I was soon drowning in the oceans she had made as tears spilled out of her eyes and onto her cheeks. I stared into the delicate features of her face, searching for any trace of sorrow or regret. She choked out sobs and endless apologies but they were all empty to me. I had been used and betrayed in the worst way.
Part of me knew that I was to blame. How was I supposed to give a woman the love she deserved when I was away 6 months out of the year? But why was I expected to choose between what I loved and the one that I loved? I understood how she felt. I had been tired of waking up alone. But never had I thought she would take another man to bed to fill that void.

Bitterness. I could taste it, and I felt it as she planted a soft kiss on my lips. The last of many. But the first that's ever brought pain.  As I held her close, my heart against her chest and nothing but the layers of our clothes, soaked with tears between us, she was thinking of him. Though I doubt the man who used the love of my life for sick seconds of pleasure was thinking of us. I was now left to pick up pieces of what I thought had been the single sweetest love I had ever known. I was clearly wrong.

Our hearts were soon to be flooded with the memories of our love tonight. I remembered the time I had first set my eyes on her. Her blonde hair had been curled to frame her face. I loved it like that. I came to find out later on in our relationship that my ginger hair had been her favorite asset of mine. I didn't question her when she called me her gingerbread man. I would simply smile as my cheeks turned the color of my hair.  Her face had been warm and inviting and her eyes were the color of the sea. They held light and they awaited a story to be told.  We had met in the slow hours of a bar. Perhaps not the best place, but I've always believed that people fall in love in mysterious ways. The kiss of a cheek, the caress of an arm, for me it had been the touch of a hand and a small "hello". We had talked well into the morning that night.

I now found myself rubbing the small of her back in circles as late night turned to early morning and her sobs brought me in and out of consciousness. I found myself floating away as I thought over memory after memory. Our first date, a movie and a trip to Nandos of course. Never had I seen a woman indulge in so much chicken before in my life. She was my kind of lady. Plenty more dates followed, to my luck. But my favorites had always been the ones where we stayed cuddled in. Sipping on red wine and watching Shrek for the tenth time. She would trace my tattoos with her soft, delicate hands and I would whisper in her ear, "maybe we found love right where we are".  We didn't have to go on expensive outings to have fun, we had each other. If you were to ask me yesterday, I would have told you that I couldn't have felt farther from lonely. Other times, I would love to take her into our back yard and play for her as we kissed and cuddled under the light of a thousand stars. I'll never forget the way the moonlight illuminated her skin in the middle of the night. I had planned on flying her back home to meet mum and dad, show her the countryside that I planned on raising a family of my own in. I guess my quirky love story still hadn't proved to be a true one. 

Never had I thought my love was so replaceable. Whenever I was away I trusted that my soul was safe in her hands. I had been sadly mistaken. Our love had been as shallow as the pools of saltwater spilling from her eyes. I could recall the first sign of trouble. I had called her on the phone to tell her that I'd be away even longer. My tour had been extended due to my success. I had was on cloud nine but I had been quickly pulled back down. I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. I should have known better when I heard a faint chuckle and her quiet whisper "Maybe I should let you go." Just before we hung up. I didn't perform the best show that night. I remembered singing through the lyrics of thinking out loud that I had carefully crafted for her. I was questioning them in the back of my mind.
If it had been so easy for her to scar me and leave me, did she ever truly love me? I could never trust her again. She would just be a friend.
I didn't want to show her affection. I wanted to cry, scream out, run away as fast as I could until I found what I had been searching for in myself. She obviously hadn't provided it. But I knew I would have to forgive her. If I wanted any chance at being happy I would simply have to move on. Easier said than done. I knew love would come and love would go. But it wasn't every day that I allowed myself to admit that I had been in love to begin with. I stared down at her, her face crumbling slowly. I felt a sadness deeper than the sea. I hated to love her. My cuffs were soon to be covered in her makeup. Yet, as her salted tears refused to dry, I found myself wiping my shirtsleeve under her eye.