A: written- 22 Aug. 2015
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A lingering touch to the arm, just a brush of fingertips, meaningful, but no meaning was felt. A strangled, tortured-sounding whisper, voice crack and all. "I'm sorry." I did not respond to the words, for I had none to say. Why speak when there's nothing to say?
Sometimes there's a need for words; other moments relish better in silence. They may not always be evident, but somehow, someway, some people just know when to say the right things... The things that need to be said, but don't necessarily want to be heard. The things that have a meaning; the things with a purpose.
Me, I don't know the right time to say these things. I've never had a reason to say them, but now as I think about it, looking at the glistening blue eyes in front of me–really the only thing standing out–I realize I should've said them. Even if it wasn't the right time, I should've said the words I knew he'd wanted to hear. But it's too late now, it seems.
I watched his form slowly disappear into the dark night, finding my feet moving my body forward. My clothes were soaked through in rain, but I didn't really notice. I had an umbrella, unopened and hanging limply in my hand. Doesn't matter anyway, it's just rain. Besides, it'll hide the tears.
I paid no mind to my feet becoming wet when I stepped through a puddle, up onto the first concrete step, the second, the third...
I focused solely on breathing, one breath after the other; it was quite the task at the moment.
Somehow my hand reached out and pulled open the door, my shoes squeaked inside, towards the lifts. It was too bright; my eyes ached and my head hurt at the change in light from the dark night to the bright, warm lobby.
I don't even remember the lift ride. What's to remember? It's a lift. Too many memories already made in it to make any more. Too many memories made in this hall, too many memories made in this doorway, too many memories made in this flat.
They were all good, too, until the last.
Even that I'm trying to forget, even though it only happened moments ago.
I try not to think this, though, because it's not pleasant.
However I also try not to think about the good memories, because that only saddens me more.
A kiss good morning; a kiss goodbye in the doorway; making breakfasts in the morning; coming home to a mess of a kitchen, a failed attempt at cupcakes and a dejected-looking lad sitting on the counter; our first night here; words exchanged in the darkness that are much too heavy to be spoken in the light of day, in the company of others, when we aren't holding each other tightly; the promise of forever.
Too many memories, not enough ways to forget, no reasonable way out.
I tell myself I won't go after him. I told myself to stay grounded; to let him walk away; we were serious this time. And I did. I watched him walk away into the rain, not knowing where he was going, or if he got there safe, or if he's still walking now.
But I tell myself not to care because it doesn't matter anymore. He is no longer anymore. Never again. He apologized. I don't know why. Maybe it was for slamming the door. Maybe it was for leaving. Maybe it was for something else. Maybe it was for the thing that caused it all. Maybe it was for something he hadn't yet done but was going to do, and he knew it would hurt me. Doesn't seem like much else can hurt me anymore. I feel pretty numb.
But I also tell myself that if he were to come through that doorway, my arms would be open, ready and willing and accepting of his small frame, instantly enveloping in the warmth while we shared a tender kiss as if not a minute had gone by where we were apart. A kiss only true lovers can master; a kiss that seems as though it should take practice, but needs none because it fits so well.
