You know, I still had designs on you. In fact, I still do. There’s some place inside me, having been too influenced by stories, that hopes and believes we’ll bump into each other in 10 years time, after living our separate lives for a while. We’ll go for a coffee, perhaps in that cafe on My Blueberry Nights. We’ll laugh. You’ll realise that I am the capable individual you always wanted me to be, and we’ll go back to your place. Or mine.
That’s the romantic in me. The sucker for a story.
Slave to Nostalgia – is my official title these days. I’m going through every memory we ever shared together and processing it, sometimes torturously. Sometimes on the bus when I’m listening to music. Turns out this is how ‘getting over it’ feels. I really wanted Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere to be about us. Some say that love is only playing out scenarios that appeal to you, like acting out a play requiring two actors. Joni Mitchell’s All I Want is all I have to say.
I’ve seen the life we could have had together, the life I opted out of. It looked wonderful. We looked good together. We did some amazing things, individually; together. I could have lived it if it weren’t for this question of ‘identity’. Niggling. You always knew who you were, whereas I – I have a grasp of myself but no command over myself.
There’s a whole playlist for you. It’s pretty much every song I’ve listened to since being with you. They’re all my favourite songs. And I listen to them in rebellion. I refuse to be overwhelmed and denied this ‘right'(?). I am trying to reclaim them, stick a flag in each one with my name on. However, there are some songs that defeat me, the ones which are painfully relevant.
I’m wearing your socks today and I still have a pair of your pants. I wanted you to have a pair of mine, but then, you always wore mine more frequently throughout the years. You were always cool with sharing, unlike I who was preoccupied with boundaries. You weren’t perfect, I suppose. But I loved you. I love(d) who you are, even if who we are means that we can’t be together.
I think you’re doing OK, and I’m doing OK, too. It drags, though. But even if I could let go like *snaps fingers*, I don’t want to. There were some moments there – during our final encounters – that were perfect. To me. The scent beneath your nose – like inhaling deeply the fragrance of fresh filter coffee still in the packet – above your lip, would still send me to my knees. It’s tricky, but; I’m beginning to accept we were … incompatible.