“Hold my breath and I’ll count to ten
I’m the paper and you’re the pen
You fill me in and you are permanent
And you’ll leave me to dry
I’m the writer and she’s the muse
I’m the one that you always choose
She will falter and gift her blame
And it’s starts all over again
Again again again.”
— Sara Bareilles, “Bright Lights and Cityscapes”
I can’t tell you the last time I talked to him. Well, I could look back on these blogs and figure it out right-quick. But it’s been well over a week and a half, and I can’t say my life is any different.
Found myself missing him late last week. Had the chance to do something we used to do. Shrugged it off at the time and, hours later, realized that I missed something sweet he used to do for me every day. Hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Have been fine without it. But missed the days when he cared and showed it.
Mom’s psychic and has always told me we’d end up together. She’s encouraged me to give him a hundred chances too many. And now I’m exercising my free will to channel my energies elsewhere. Nowhere specific, just … into the universe, somewhere.
I never wanted to shut down my heart to this. I figured once he grew back whatever part of his brain lobotomized itself, this would go back to normal. And I wouldn’t say the door is hermetically sealed shut. It would just take a pretty big windstorm to crack it open again.
Oh, anyway. Psychic. Mom said he’s feeling blown off and afraid to reach out to me. I guess my non-response to him sending my horoscope to me from time to time (he still reads it every day) and the occasional article of interest I get via Facebook or e-mail speaks volumes.
How about a “Hi, how are you?” Can we be normal like that? Instead of my passive-aggressive song postings and his horoscope-sendings?
And guess who’s feeling blown off? *two thumbs pointed thisaway* You don’t let women like me go. We don’t come back.
I have decided he has to be gay. He’s too good-looking for words, anyway. And since he’s playing with those ancient-ass exes of his, that would make sense too. After all, they put the HAG in fag hag!
God, thank you for giving me the opportunity I requested with him. I’m sorry I bothered You so much and for so long about it. I’m sorry I still feel so sad at such random moments when You have such a great life laid out before me.
Thank you for the experience, Lord — next time I’ll let You pick. He said he’d never met anyone like me … that I’ll be a wonderful wife and amazing mother … that he never knew someone like me could exist. He’s not stupid, clearly. Just not bright enough to make me his.
Bless his steps. Heal his heart. Knock some sense into his noggin. Help him to feel whole, minus the part I used to (and will always) occupy.
Make him miss me every day for the rest of his life. And thank You for helping me feel a smidge better with every passing day. In the meantime …
“She is bright lights and cityscapes
And white lies and cavalcades
And she’ll take all you ever have
But I’m gonna love you
You say, ‘Maybe it’ll last this time.’
But I’m gonna love you
You never have to ask
I’m gonna love you
‘Til you start looking back.”