“A tornado flew around my room before you came. Excuse the mess it made, it usually doesn’t rain in Southern California much like Arizona. My eyes don’t shed tears but boy they pouring. I’m thinking bout you, do you think about me still? Or do you not think so far ahead? Cause I’ve been thinking about forever.“ Frank Ocean
There’s something about a man that brings out the worst tendencies in a woman. Most arise after the receiving and rescinding of a singular word: forever. Before realizing the true impact, a man will utter forever without constituting its significance. Forever takes shape without consideration of time, duration, outside influences.
From the moment a man whispers forever a new understanding of the relationship blossoms. The idea that second to second without ceasing you will share secrets, joys, fears, events—life with another.
New to the world of dating, I’m discovering this quasi-convoluted definition of forever. In it the ‘lasting’ represents temporal and the ‘commitment’ conditions until something better. In a quest for pair-dom, I’ve lost considerably due to lack of correct interpretation. Words hanging aimlessly require translation before deriving true meaning.
I thought I deleted everything. You reach a point where the mourning has lasted longer than the affair itself, but you can’t move on. There is no closure in such a situation. The notion that dreaming with a broken heart is still dreaming, gives way to an awarded accomplishment. At least I slept right?
I don’t understand why my heart won’t move on. Why am I still stuck in the same crevice between broken and bereaved? I’m overwhelmed with missing. I keep going back to the way he held me, the way he reached for me when we slept. I never before felt so cherished. For a girl who never knew the meaning, he certainly created the definition.
I refuse to attribute words or explain his actions, thus giving whatever it was a glint recognizable by mine eye only. It was my decision to permanently close all contact, but I often miss his friendship. I crave his warmth. Memories cling to my pillowcases, seeping in unguarded when I seek rest from my thoughts. That’s the root problem though, right? I thought him mine, I heard him say forever, I constructed a multi-level house of cards which was unable to withstand the merest wind blow.
If I were different, I’d move on. Carry baggage to the doorstep of a new conquest: treat his welcome with subdued contempt until he unpacked the suitcases to my satisfaction. In loving the last, I lost my sense of forever. I question my ability to bring past and present to peace. I forgave him all transgressions because in truth the defect lies with the only person who can change—me.
His leaving took from me something I never thought to feel again, an emotion his arrival unleashed which I previously suppressed for lack of substantial evidence to its existence; he took my hope. Therein lies the crux, right? I can never take him back and he doesn’t want to return anyway. It’s a death where the person you grieve still lives, but has chosen to disappear.
This love is a novelty candle, no matter how hard I blow the fuse reignites from the paraffin vapor my ragged breath gives off. Easily extinguishable with water, even my tears aren’t enough.