I still remember the day he left.
He brought wine, and he used my toothbrush.
He stayed all night and watched me violently shake the earth with jolts of fear, screams and tears.
All I could think of was a home video from when he was 3. He memorized Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening.” His feet dangled off the sofa. His mother looked into the camera and said, “I can’t wait till you’re all grown up and your girlfriend sees this.” I am her. I was her.
That killed me. And it replayed in my head for weeks, and still does when I look inside myself.
His tics came out of him like waves.
His eyes were so deep, I wanted to jump into them, so I could stay inside him forever.
I still think, sometimes, he shouldn’t have left.
I begged him to stay. I embarrassed myself immensely.
We fought such stupid wars at the end.
And then, I remembered how I forgot to love him. I hated myself for this.
I didn’t wash my pillowcases for months, because I could still smell the face wash I always used to smell on his cheeks.
When people ask me why I tolerated his endless bullshit, I say, “I don’t know,” but I think of all the little idiosyncrasies of his that haunt me, get inside my bones, and make me miss our love.