Do you know my favourite place? Where I feel so safe and needed? It’s when you nestle me in the palm of your hand.
It’s not when we hold hands, rough meeting smooth. It’s not the way your fingers run through my hair, or when they cup my chin before you bend down to tell me secrets. No, it’s a more perfect fit that that. It is so perfect, we can find it from any angle, any position, any place.
My favourite place is when I am settled into the strongest part of you. My waist. Your hands. A perfect fit.
Your fingers can find their place without a bone to guide or slot them in. Your hand splays to guide me, enough strength to pull me back with just the tips of your fingers, enough strength to spin me round in a dizzying circle of emotion. You can lift me from my seat with the slightest movement of your palm against my spine. I don’t know how you do it.
I know the rules, I know our boundaries. But our perfect fit has changed the game. You said it yourself, late that night with rain pelting against the windows and only a bed sheet to keep our two beings seperate. You said it when you pulled the sheet from my shoulders and connected our two bodies with an outstreched palm. “It’s like my hand was made to hold this waist”. You said it.
I have a beautiful collection of weaknesses. I like them very much. My greatest weakness is that I like all the things that don’t matter. I fall in love with all the things that, essentially, won’t last. I fall in love with the sound a mouth makes when it opens to say something, but stops itself; a shared silence. I fall in love with the bird that will fly for the sake of flight, not scavenging for food or following a mating call. The act of doing something, that in essence is nothing at all.
This weakness for the things that don’t matter is perhaps why I never hold onto happiness; my heart is always breaking down from fallen romances, broken promises and the threat of an empty, meaningless future. Happiness is just not my weakness. No, indeed. My weakness is the quiet, empty abyss of nothing.
Whilst nothing may seem like a concept that lacks depth, lacks beauty, lacks future – it isn’t. In fact, its is potential abounding. With little to rest hope, or indeed trust on, nothing can provide you with those fleeting moments of simple joy that are traditionally not considered markers of happiness. If we can make such a huge statement, nothing has no where near the potential to hurt like happiness does.
Nothing has a solitude that envelopes, it involves you and wraps you inside of a shell that holds inside a litany of beautiful, meaningless ‘things’. Sounds and silences, textures and traditions. Nothing is really not so empty as it is painted.
You’d think after six, long, date-like dates we would be starting to get our acts together. But sadly, not. Six dates in a year and a half and we once again find ourselves staring down the barrel of one of our infamous hiatus. Whilst I am no Julia, and you are certainly no Hugh, I am left to ponder what we actually are.
Your name has more than three letters, you passed the “Does he have his shit together?” test, and you have a reasonably pretty face for someone who spends their weekend destroying it by riding down big hills on big bikes. But we get to Date Two and we stump ourselves for months on end?
I don’t try especially hard, but I do try. For six dates I have remembered places/times/names, I’ve remembered to censor the little in-jokes that always slip from my tongue. I’ve laughed at your awful Dad jokes. I’ve tried. And remember, I am just a girl, standing infront of a boy. Asking him to let them get past their two date streak.
Maybe we just get back to our individual drawing boards?
… Inappropriate things to say to your Ex.
I have been thinking about calling you. Everyday.
I keep thinking about what I did. I think about it, everyday.
I look at myself everyday in the mirror and hate myself for what I did to you.
I want to call you, I want you to pick up the phone. I miss the days you rang me just to say hi, I want that back.
Can I say hi? Everyday I see you walking to work I want to just run to you and say hi. To grab your arm and say hi.
It has been 72 days. You have had 72 chances to turn on of those days into one of the everydays you speak of. It has been 72 days without a peep.
You are 72 days too late to claim your second chance.
You have given me 72 days to rebuild myself into the person I that I was, 72 chances to be as fantastic as my potential allows.
72 days to perhaps meet Mr. Right (for-now, for-ever, whatever). 72 chances to fall into a blissful nighttime slumber as happy single as I was taken. 72 days to see the people who love all my faults, 72 chances to celebrate what a special support unit I have.
So I wholeheartedly thank you, I gladly thank you for gifting me with 72 days. Time to process and to think, to cry and to laugh about the things I used to love about you. Perhaps most importantly though, for the 72 reminders as to why I will never need you to wake up next to me everyday ever again.