I guess the only way to fall out of love with someone is to forget. I can’t believe I forgot.
Maybe someday we can tie ourselves to something again, hopefully even love.
If inanimate objects could talk:
My bed would love me, but it would tell me to visit it more and stop inviting other friends like laptop.
My car would unfriend me on Facebook and formally complain that: I don’t take good enough care of it, I sing off tune 100% of the time and that I should stop telling him the truth and instead tell the people who should hear it.
My bank account would tell me I am not invited to her birthday party.
My journal would confess that she misses me, and that she wishes I had something good to tell her so now and then.
My laptop would tell me to get out of his room and shut off the lights so he can finally go to sleep and try to shut down.
My books would beg me to visit them again and pay them the attention they deserve.
My toothbrush would tell me to stop forgetting what he looks like and that it feels like I am cheating on him with that pink Colgate girl.
My keys would exclaim that if I lose them one more time they will personally break themselves in half because I don’t even deserve to open doors.
My phone would tell me that no matter how many text messages or likes or notifications I get, it won’t make me happier. It won’t ever be the thing that wakes me up in the morning knowing it will be a good day, an important day. He would tell me not to wait, but to live, breathe, daydream, -heck- nightdream while you’re at it. He would tell me that he will come and go, just like sunlight and air and laughter and love and joy and heartache and raindrops and kisses and smiles. But he would tell me if anything, to give up on him. To secede him in order to preserve the others. That they have more they can give me.
I think if inanimate objects could talk they would know more secrets than we do ourselves. I think they would tell us the truth behind a person. They would tell us the truth behind a person because we aren’t afraid to tell them or show them what the secret meandering thoughts looming in our minds really are. We aren’t afraid to undress our secrets to them. What do they care, they can’t judge us, tell on us, spoil us, criticize us. All they are, are meager objects. But if they could talk, oh then maybe they would know me best of all.
I think if inanimate objects could talk they would tell us we can trust them, and that maybe sometimes we place too much worth on them. They would tell us they aren’t as important as we think they are. That one day, when our breaths are short, and our hair whispy grey, that our thoughts won’t dart to them, but to the experiences we had with them, on them, near them, because of them. They would tell us they are just the backdrop for our real lives. Our real lives, our big lives, our true lives.
When he sings the words they aren’t words anymore, they are rhythms for your heart to beat with. I don’t hear music anymore, I feel like he has unraveled a loose end and torn it wide open and whispered into it with the kindness of a million hearts. He is right, I won’t forget it, none of us will forget it.
Oh you won’t regret it no, no.
Young girls they don’t forget it.
Love is their whole happiness.
But I can’t, that part of me is still caged up in a dark corner somewhere.
“You have my word, you have all my words.”
“All of it?” She asked, turning around to look at him.
“Yeah, all of it.” He answered slowly, making sure she picked out the truth in his voice. Making sure she felt the certainty on his breath.
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Even the broken ones?”
“What if you hurt yourself? They’re not safe. I don’t know what could happen.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“What if I’m not okay?”
“I’ll hold them for you.”
“What if I forget some of them?”
“Give them to me when you find them.”
“What if I lost some?”
“We can look for them, but we don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.”
“Some of them might be far away. It could be hard to get to them. You know how the years go by and we hoard and we pile and we consume and we collect and-”
“-I know”, he interrupted.
“I know. I know we keep too many things. I know we keep too many things without knowing we’ve stored them away deep in a pitch black corner. That we don’t do it to keep them but just to know they existed. I know you kept things, things I might never see. Maybe I have too. I think we all have that tiny cupboard full of tiny things that are really the big things. The biggest things.”
“If you know that, why do you want them?”
“Because, I never want to be a tiny thing in your tiny cupboard, pretending not to be the big thing. The biggest thing. I never want to be shoved into the pitch black corner. I will take every tiny thing you have and I will adore it. All of them. Even the broken ones. Even the lost ones. Even the hidden ones. I want all of them.”
It was the first time someone had asked for it all. For everything. Every thought, every hope, every broken dream, every torn belief. Every atom in her being.
So, she gave him everything, hoping he meant every word he had said.
People say we look good together. That the blue in your eyes matches the white of my hair and the spring in my step reaches out to the brood in your walk. People say we try for the other, we laugh at each other, that we compliment one another.
I don’t see that. I don’t see you and me. I don’t see us. I don’t see it.
I see you. Your outline when you escape beneath a blanket. Your shadow when the last candle flickers it’s last breath. I see the way your eyes droop with laziness when the hours become young again. I see the sinking holes in your hands waiting to be filled and I see the crescent in your neck where I know I fit perfectly.
Truth is, I will never see us. I will always just see you. I see you, that is all I need.