This Is Not A Heart

There had been a dissonance in the notes of his affection for some time. Like an old shoe, I had become a comfortable fit, worn thin to the point of no appeal. But through rose colored lenses, I held on to that part of him that needed me, that needed someone, anyone, that would do things for him, make him sandwiches, sew his buttons. He no longer asked me what I was thinking, and when I asked him, he said, “Can’t I keep some of my thoughts to myself?” He wouldn’t leave my apartment for days. I didn’t know how to adjust for my lack of productivity, for the stagnation that he had brought into my life. I thought that we would soon find a way to compromise our time together, but this was never discussed. He spent most of his time drinking, and I grew weary of the monster he became. I dreaded and feared that side of him. He would kiss me and bite my lips till they bled, tell me he loved me, tell me he never wanted to see me again. And when I told him his drinking had become a problem, he couldn’t see why I wouldn’t just leave him.

“Because I’m invested in you, in us. I can’t just abandon you because you have a problem.” But I should have. He was bad for me.

And when we sat in that coffee shop and he said the only thing he liked about me was that I cared about him,  I tried to imagine every woman that he had ever loved. What inherent qualities did they have that I was missing? How easy it was to lose myself in him, to be so consumed with someone that I didn’t have time for me anymore. He sat there feeling guilty looking serious and I tried to imagine what he looked like when we met–ardently smitten showing off his dimples.   And I wondered if he threw away the four-leaf clover he found on our first date? And would he delete all the pictures of me on his camera? Would he call someone else his Miss Havisham?

But after ten days of sifting through the pieces, I don’t even care.

Ladyhawke – Love Don’t Live Here