You were the last time I conflated escapism with love. Your eyes used to fixate on me as if I was wholly composed of magic.
Oh, the charm of it all.
I admit I got carried away in the fiction of it.
This is what ended us. Or, maybe, this is what stopped us from really beginning.
I am made up of things apart from fantasy. I am bad days and mood swings and irrationality.
I am mistakes and apologies and flawed friendship.
Yes, there is innate messiness to me. Still, I am trying to elevate myself to be what love demands.
I tried with every remaining bit of my sanity to help you understand this.
After all, what is love if not a space to grow?
A year later, I sit here in my new life, my earned life. This man who isn’t you makes goofy faces at me knowing I will roll my eyes at him. He unpacks our belongings.
Clothing for the closet. Dishes for the kitchen. A new couch he’s bought for us in my favorite color, purple.
We select a pine dresser from the online catalog. We like its simplicity because I can decorate it with my henna designs.
It dawns on me that I could never have had all of this with you.
A home waiting to be built. Conversations about what paintings to hang on the walls. Arguments and resolutions that fill this place with the sounds of us.
You and I could never have made it this far.
I am too much like my mother, and it turns out that you were unsettlingly similar to my father. I told you how their story turned out.
Here, I am not met with silence when I plead for connection. I am not stonewalled by cold eyes punishing me for doing the one thing you couldn’t do: expressing myself.
Then, I had not yet learned that the love I need necessitates a specific kind of lover- one who is not swept away on a sea of serotonin only to be made faithless by my reality.
Perhaps you were the unrequited wish of the broken girl inside of me. I wanted to heal her, not enable her.
So, when you left, I let you go.