I rechoose these choices every morning. With my coffee and small wicker chair, a brush of this blush to fake the rush of blood I used to feel with you.
And for the most part, I am very happy.
I stopped finding new music, because all I want to hear are sad songs, and they ruin me. So I listen to Hot 97.
If ever I were to hear a melody as soft and slow as my truth, I would lose the ability to forget again.
I don’t have knickknacks, or heart tapping playlists, I don’t go thrifting, I haven’t many friends…
I’ve ransacked my life and thrown everything out.
Because I was changed by you.
Because I had to relearn to live without.
Because my heart couldn’t take it anymore.
If I am a post-war survivor, then my work and my comfort are my bunker and I’ve seen too much to come back out.
I have a new love now. A different love. A stable and constant love. I don’t have songs written for me and I never cry. There’s a trade-off.
I laugh a lot though.
There aren’t highs and lows. There are highs and middle ground, and there is security. I don’t think there’s enough weight on security. Without it, the lows are too terrifying, and the highs too unstable.
And if he leaves, if this ends, then I will be lost, in Western Jersey, and I will be single for a long time.
And I’ll go thrifting.
And refind pieces of me that were once you, and him, and everyone else.
And I’ll remember when you knew me, when I was that person, when I knew me…
and I’ll wonder where she went.
And I’ll remember the warm room with the good energy, and the space next to the bed, and the day I didn’t take it.
And how much better off we both are for it.