I sat facing you, back against the wall. Your eyes full of tears. “Three years,” you said as you looked at the gift. “It always gets hard after that.” You told me stories of past loves and losses, the way your heart had held on even after they had long left the door swinging, the air blowing in cold.
And, as you handed me these parts of you, the hurts and hope of something different, I wanted to so desperately to shout “No, please don’t. I’m not to be trusted. I am the next chapter here. And, I’ve left others in my wake, a wave I can’t stop from coming.”
I stayed silent. I didn’t want to lose you to the fear if those words were pronounced, like some sort of death sentence. I didn’t know how to stay, and didn’t know how to you tell you I would leave. So, I played the fool and then slowly slipped out quietly. I tried to stop my feet from going, but the ways I had worn those shoes in were familiar and predictable.
A year later, I sat in the same well worn spot. The paint had aged from florescent lighting and distrust between us, well, it had grown thick. You said you were always left by three. Well, I always leave by three. And, sometimes I wonder if that’s why it all started. If we were so strongly attracted because of our need to leave and be left. We were both moths to a singular flame, and we burned up.