I have this box. It's one of those that you're supposed to put pictures in, that has a frame on each side. My box doesn't have pictures in it. It has things. Random things. Things that I put inside to unclutter my heart.
The ring that I was wearing on the night that we met (or "recognized each other" as he liked to say. We'd seen each other around our entire lives...) He was leaning over the bar with that devilish grin of his and swiped the ring from the counter.
A bunch of scraps of paper with things scribbled on them which I write every time I want to say something to him. I miss you every day.
Song lyrics.
Snippets of emails. Transcribed SMSs. You are the best part of every day.
Pictures. Three of me looking miserable and crying over him. My friend Anna snapped them over lunch the Saturday after we broke up because "one day you will laugh at this day." One of this cute little character holding out his arms and saying "I'll just pretend to hug you until you get here." (Actually believing that if I stood there long enough with by arms out he would. Get here, I mean.)
I'm thinking that if I shove all my memories into a box then maybe I can remove them from me and then maybe there can be a chance that I don't go to bed and wake up the next day with his face in my mind.
So I get it.
I get that people have their things. Their boxes. Maybe not actual boxes like mine, but some sort of metaphoric box to dump their crap in. I get that they have to do whatever they have to do to move on.
Maybe that means disappearing from the face of the earth.
Maybe that means cutting off all sort of contact. Erasing your number off their phone. Erasing you from their friend list on facebook (or even quitting facebook altogether, who knows?)
Maybe that means that you are left to think that everything you thought you had ever believed about that person was wrong.
Maybe. And I get it.
It doesn't make it any easier that I get it. It doesn't make me cry any less or stop myself from thinking WHY THE **** IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? (again) It doesn't take away the ounce of self-pity, the edge of frustration, confusion, annoyance, pain. It doesn't make me blame myself, him, the universe (you pick the order) any less. I get it, but I don't like it.
I have this box. I have this box where I put things. Random things. I have a box where I put things while I hope, wish, pray, beg to unclutter my heart. And I'll keep stuffing the box until this goes away. Until you get here. Until it works.
The ring that I was wearing on the night that we met (or "recognized each other" as he liked to say. We'd seen each other around our entire lives...) He was leaning over the bar with that devilish grin of his and swiped the ring from the counter.
A bunch of scraps of paper with things scribbled on them which I write every time I want to say something to him. I miss you every day.
Song lyrics.
Snippets of emails. Transcribed SMSs. You are the best part of every day.
Pictures. Three of me looking miserable and crying over him. My friend Anna snapped them over lunch the Saturday after we broke up because "one day you will laugh at this day." One of this cute little character holding out his arms and saying "I'll just pretend to hug you until you get here." (Actually believing that if I stood there long enough with by arms out he would. Get here, I mean.)
I'm thinking that if I shove all my memories into a box then maybe I can remove them from me and then maybe there can be a chance that I don't go to bed and wake up the next day with his face in my mind.
So I get it.
I get that people have their things. Their boxes. Maybe not actual boxes like mine, but some sort of metaphoric box to dump their crap in. I get that they have to do whatever they have to do to move on.
Maybe that means disappearing from the face of the earth.
Maybe that means cutting off all sort of contact. Erasing your number off their phone. Erasing you from their friend list on facebook (or even quitting facebook altogether, who knows?)
Maybe that means that you are left to think that everything you thought you had ever believed about that person was wrong.
Maybe. And I get it.
It doesn't make it any easier that I get it. It doesn't make me cry any less or stop myself from thinking WHY THE **** IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? (again) It doesn't take away the ounce of self-pity, the edge of frustration, confusion, annoyance, pain. It doesn't make me blame myself, him, the universe (you pick the order) any less. I get it, but I don't like it.
I have this box. I have this box where I put things. Random things. I have a box where I put things while I hope, wish, pray, beg to unclutter my heart. And I'll keep stuffing the box until this goes away. Until you get here. Until it works.
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