I don’t know why it’s October, if there’s something about this month that makes me think of you more than any others. There are no significant events, no milestones to mark in October. But for some reason, it’s this month where you creep into my mind far more often than usual.
It’s been so long now that I’m good at pushing it away; when I think of you, or remember you exist because your face or name pops up in some social media context, I’m good at placing it right where it belongs: in our shared past. Shutting the cover on the book with a good, dusty thump.
But October, October makes it hard to do that.
I wonder if you miss me too. I’m sure when you moved you packed up and threw out all the old things, like that blue Ikea candle I used to light and pour across your chest to make you yelp in pain as I covered your mouth with my fist. You probably threw those things away a long time ago, though. I always thought that candle was ugly, coated in dust, a little bit rancid and berry-scented.
It’s funny how time coats those little things in a rose-pink color. You forget that things weren’t good when you miss somebody. It’s the human condition to want to remember only the happy things and forget about the bad ones.
Maybe I miss you in October because the fall signals a change for me; it always has and it always will. I walked around our old college campus a few days ago and it’s impossible not to think about you when I’m there, considering we spent most of our college years all tangled up in your bed.
I have to push it away more in October. I miss you, and I hate myself for it.
This new-ish boy is touching me and kissing me and at first I was kind of into it. After all, I had lured him here after a couple beers, hoping for a little evening diversion. But now that he’s actually here and in my universe, my safe little space of an apartment, I want him gone. I want him to stop doing everything he’s doing and leave me alone. I feel repulsed by his very presence. This happens to me sometimes, where everything turns and the kisses and caresses that had felt good and comforting and warm just feel disgusting and unwarranted. Get out, I think. Go away. But I don’t want to be an asshole to this nice person who ended up here because of me. I just know that when he leaves I will strip off my clothes and scrub myself in the shower to erase everything in a haze of suds and fancy soap, and when I’m done I will feel kind of gross and totally empty.
I used to feel that way with you. That’s why it didn’t last. I won’t miss you come November.