I still see you everywhere I go. The blocks we walked together, the restaurants we ate at, the houses we slept together in: it keeps us barely alive. This restaurant still being here is proof that you once loved me. As long as Joanne Street doesn’t blow up, it will remain a reminder of what happened between us. Maybe if I eat at this restaurant more or move into a house on Joanne Street, it will bring you back. Maybe if I start wearing the shirt you bought for me at Christmas you will just appear to me and things will just go back to normal. (Isn’t it bizarre how we actually believe this is true? After a break up, the things we’re capable of feeling and thinking could honestly get us committed. We’re delusional, we’re not right in the head.)
Do you still think about me like I think about you? No, of course you don’t. If you did, I wouldn’t be writing this. There’d be no inequity in feelings, no chilliness between the sheets, and no “I don’t think this is working out.” I’ve been there before. I’ve been the “I don’t think this is working out” guy and I would kill to do a Freaky Friday on our bodies right now. Being the “I don’t think this is working out” guy means you feel immense amounts of guilt but you’re protected in a cocoon of lovelessness. You know your grieving period will be a blip compared to the other person’s. Wash your hands, get the dirt off, and move on. Mmmmm, you lucky devil, you.
Since you’ve left, I’ve been working out at the gym, doing great at my job, and drinking less wine before bed. I said that I was doing this all for myself, a post break up cleanse of sorts, but that’s not really true. (By the way, 80% of the things I tell myself and my friends for the next 6-9 months will be a lie.) I’m living right these days because, in a way, I’m just waiting for you to come back to me. I’m waiting for you to love me more. It will take me a long time to realize that eating at our restaurant and visiting the places we used to frequent and losing five pounds will not make you love me more. Nothing will. But I’m not ready to learn that lesson yet because the second I do, it means you’re gone forever. And I kind of like holding on to you in this sick and unhealthy way. Getting you to love me more is a fruitless task and one that will surely end in tears, but it gives me purpose. It distracts me from the nothing. So fill me up with as many delusions as you want. They’re the only thing keeping me company these days.