Testimony

A testament to the words we didn’t say. And him on a pedestal now that I’m here, now that he is just in my imagination, occasionally on my phone. His god-like presence. Me distracting myself with anything, falling into depression. Me setting my alarm for four AM his time so I can call him once he’s off work. Me writing him short letters revealing myself. Giving away the parts where I love him, I don’t say it, but I love him. Me wondering if I should regret not saying I love you at the last moment, but knowing that it wouldn’t have made a difference, I didn’t say it because it didn’t make a difference. I didn’t want to say it because it was my last night. I wanted to say it because I loved him. And I wasn’t sure if I was mixing the two up, I wasn’t sure if it was me or him or time or distance. So I didn’t say it.

The best of intentions

You'd think I could just say it, but I can't. I don't know how to accurately describe this, this space between us. This place where I get stuck. And I can't describe it. I can't tell you a damn thing, because I don't know a damn thing. I don't know what I'm doing. If maybe it's just that I miss home, I miss feeling close to everything I know, everything I love, and now I'm terribly fair away. I don't know how to function in a world this far away. And I love it here, don't get me wrong. Let's not get confused, I love this city. This is where I should be, and yes, maybe I'm still talking myself into it. I am.

So it's confusing to be here and it's my best friend I'm spending all this time with, and the only reason it becomes complicated is because he is him and I am me and there's a history, of course there's a history, and I thought it was all done, I knew I held the cards but I thought it was done. But I think I'm vulnerable and alone, and the talking myself into loving this city only goes so far, it only goes so far.

Sitting on the couch and not leaving the house for an entire day, reading a good book but wondering what he's thinking in the adjoining room and if I'm ruining this, if I will eventually drive him away. If soon enough, he will hate me for the things I do to his mind, for the way I cause him to feel, for my loneliness and his availability. I love him, just not that way. I love him. But I would have to talk myself into being in love with him. And maybe it would come, in time, but I've given it two years already and I'm not sure it's there. I can give it all day all night all year all next year. I've already given it that. I don't think it's time I need.

But I hold his hand and he kisses me. He touches me. He's in a love affair with my hip bone. With both of them. We sit too close together on the bus. Instead of saying I'm sorry, I touch his hand. Press my fingers to his and look him in the eye, rest my head on his shoulder when I shouldn't, imitate his voice and kiss him where his shoulder and arm meet, this place that is mine. I accuse him of stealing my good pen and then ask him soso nicely, since he's going to the kitchen, to get me a glass of water but only two ice cubes please. I pushed my shirt off my shoulder yesterday to remove a stray hair, to scratch an inch, to - anything, and felt his eyes covering every inch of my bare skin.

It's this hero worship that I don't know how to handle. His adoration of me, when he knows it all, and still: adoration. How can he love me this way? How can I not love him this way?

[Practical] matters of the heart

Again. The things we said with our eyes. But what's the point in "I love you" when I knew I would be a thousand miles away the very next day? And how callous. How callous. But this is me. Practicality will always win, and it's useless to love someone in a life I no longer lead. My heart may be breaking, right this moment, but let's please all be practical.

This is my choice. I don't want to lose him to Chicago, but I've made up my mind. It's Chicago I love. He couldn't hold me.

So why am I resenting Chicago for taking me from him? Why am I acting like a jilted lover? Why am I playing passive aggressive mind games with this city?

Repentance

Dear Bartender,

You're making it easy. You're making it easy to forget you. I don't remember the exact way you smelled or how it felt to wake up to you. I can't quite recall that feeling I got with you. I haven't felt it here, I haven't, but I'm forgetting. That feeling? I will not associate with only you much longer. I will move on.

And do you blame me? You don't talk to me. In your eyes, this never had a chance, did it? Did it? Just tell me the truth. Tell me the truth. That this pining, that these sporadic late night phone calls, it's all been in vain, because you never thought it could work. And that's fine. It's just fine. But please let me know. Please don't make me think you would choose me. Choose me over your addictions. Choose me over the here and now.

I made a choice. I moved away. I still wanted you. I still want you.

Predestination

I walked for miles with a stranger last night. Miles of talk. Of exchanging stories. Of subtle glances.

We didn't exchange information. It's up to chance. It's up to the universe.

Raining cats and dogs

That last night, before I flew away, we tried to make it to my car without an umbrella. We stopped under a green awning, kissed. Kissed. Kissed. Isn’t that the point? These moments. These tiny moments. They make a life. This moment, it could have made my whole life. We finally gave up and ran to the car, ran into the twenty-four hour grocery store, ran into his apartment. Toasted to something, to what, I don’t remember. Toasted to being mostly in love. Toasted to fleeting moments. Toasted to living in the moment. Toasted to a life.

A clockwork orange

It's like clockwork: Sunday night. Sunday night and I'm deciding if I know exactly what I'm doing, if it's all premeditated, if I'm a lyingcheatingbitch, or, hey, maybe it's not my fault. I'm confused. Alone. And he won't talk to me. I'm even being logical about it. I don't think it's someone else or that he's bored. I think he's trying to spare us both.

And fine, this is my opinion. What are you going to do, ask him?

So fine, we'll go with my opinion.

And again with the inability to see it for what it is, what it would have become had I stayed. I'm wearing my blinders proud.

For once, for once, I didn't have to talk myself into a damn thing. And now that I'm gone, and it feels like it could have been perfect even if I know I just happened to have left at the exact moment when it was all perfect. It isn't all perfect. It wouldn't have been all perfect. Him not talking is not all perfect.

I'm not sorry and now someone else is factored in, factored in in the most complicated way. In such a way that I can't even make it up. I'm not sorry it happened. I'm not sorry I miss him. I don't wish this all hadn't happened. It's good. It was good. He may be doing what's best now, he may be trying his damnedest to put this behind him, my heart may be breaking, I may be moving on, I may not, but it was worth it regardless. True story: I can be affected this way. It may just be better to be bereft and to at least know I had it good, I felt it, than to be the same. I'd rather feel like hell than feel like nothing at all.

Ex files

Is this the part where I mention the crazy ex keeps texting me? Saying he's happy for me? But still doing what he always does: acting kind of insane and confusing?

Tempting, isn't it?

My first friend in Chicago. It was all going so well. I thought it was going well. Until he kept touching me a beat too long and then I had to wonder. Is it my job to stop this? Is it my job to keep us in the Friends Zone? Is this normal? Is this a given? Is it bound to happen and maybe I should just get used to it?

Why can't I be an upstanding citizen and not be tempted? Temptation reigns supreme. I'm tempted. Fine. I'm tempted.

Love letter, part II

I don't feel strange waking up in my bed in my bedroom in my apartment in Chicago.

I don't miss the life I had.

I do miss him.

One is the loneliest number

I know I'm this far from everything I know. I know I've been living this new life for mere days.

But I've been fine. I've been [strangely] fine.

Until now. Now when he won't return my calls. And sure. It's better this way. It's better. In the long run, this makes sense.

The problem is that navigating this new life, learning all the nuances of this strange place- it pales in comparison to how I feel without him. Changing my life? Not a big deal. Him going mute? I can't pretend. Because it's my heart that is breaking.

Just let me be bereft.

I wish you would've put yourself in my suitcase

It's his bad habits that I'm thinking about, that I know I could never actually live with. He keeps the blinds drawn, doesn't want to see the light of day. Doesn't exercise. Smokes cigarettes from a green box. Has a drinking problem. He won't talk to me.

But I'm sitting here listening to this song that reminds me of him. On repeat. I've lost track of how many times I've heard it.

He is a thousand miles away. He isn't talking to me. He's opinionated to the point of arrogance at times. The way he would look at me. How I could never get close enough to him. Smiling all the time. All my favorite parts of him: his bottom rib, his jawline, his walk. I've run out of reasons why this won't work. It won't work.

I shouldn't have to talk myself out of it.

Going in circles

I'm not so sure what I'm doing here. Trying to prove here. I don't know. I don't know. I'm just reaffirming my patterns, going in circles, missing him so much and now chastising myself for all my indiscretions.

Why do I do this? I'm sitting here, miserable, thinking about all the ways I put myself into situations and then act the way I do: I'm the victim, I can't sleep, I miss him, why would I create a love triangle? Why would I fulfill this prophecy? Why am I writing in circles?

I thought I was learning to live without him. I thought I was learning to not miss him. I thought I could just change my behavior, my patterns, and therefore, my feelings. I thought I was doing it.

I didn't. I'm not.

I still miss him.

Going the distance

He said, "Quit making me fall in love with you from this far away."

Nip it in the bud

I think it’s the opposite of the slow fade. I think The Bartender is trying to cut me out. Which is understandable. It’s understandable. It’s pointless to go around, living my life almost a thousand miles away, wanting him. It’s pointless. Its a moot point. And we both know this. But now he's not talking. He's not talking. This morning, I slept through 4am without a hitch.

So maybe it’s both of us who are becoming accustomed to our separate lives? And maybe I'm bitter again, because it feels like I'm taking all of it -all of the looks and the words and the smilingsmilingsmiling -and just tossing it aside. It doesn't mean anything, now that I'm here and he's there.

But it does mean something. It is significant. And I miss him terribly. It shouldn't be so easy to forget. I don't want to forget. But I suppose time works the way it does and its inevitable. I'm here. He's there. It’s a moot point.

One and only

During our usual 4am conversation, he said, "You're ruining my game. I just think about you." So I said, "You're ruining my game. Millions of options, but only: you."

Only. Him.

Day One

Woke up at 4am as per the usual with The Bartender's schedule. At 4am he comes over, I go over, and we stay up, talking, giggling, kissing. But. This morning. We texted sweet nothings instead of whispering them.