Love is a Losing Game

“Love is a losing game, one I wish I never played. Oh what a mess we made. And now the final frame. Love is a losing game. More than I could stand, love is a losing hand. Though I battle blind, love is a fate resigned. Memories mar my mind, love is a fate resigned. Over futile arts, laughed at by the gods. And now the final frame, love is a losing game.”  Amy Winehouse

Of all the Bus Boy & Poets, you walk into mine. And I see you… I thought God wouldn’t let this happen until I was ready. I saw you… twins are hard to miss. And I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m not ready.

I remember the last time I saw you. Crying a rainstorm of tears, as my sobs banged thunder, my words flash like lightening caught in the howl of the wind, they’re unintelligible. You were there. I couldn’t keep the broken inside anymore. Fresh champagne bubbles that leave a tingle on your tongue and a sweet taste in your mouth, you tasted my pain.

It was then and there you had to leave. I’m a simple girl: simple needs, simple desires. My heart will stop feeling sad when I feel, when I finally know that I mean something, that I’m special, that I’m unique, and that I hold a unequaled place that no one else can hold, that I’m needed, and finally that I’m irreplaceable so that I know I won’t be abandoned. I feel this through the quality time we spend together, when you help me when I’ve exhausted all the possibilities by myself, and I know I can rely on you to be the bulldog in my corner.

Funny thing is that I don’t believe in the fantastical love of romance novels anymore… reality has wiped me clean of my juvenile illusions. I simply want to be with my best friend: the person who understands me without words, can finish my sentence, will listen to my tears without trying to solve my problems and when I’m ready is there with ideas. It’s sad that I thought I had that, reaching with eager hands only to have the vision crumble and turn to dust as my hands touch its fragile concept.

“Love is born with the pleasure of looking at each other, it is fed by the necessity to see each other, it is concluded by the impossibility of separation” Jose Marti

Jose understood that this necessity to be around the person you care for, to feel wrapped in their embrace with the strength of vise clamps, the simplicity of the warmth their presence provides in the midst of the hail we call life.

Trapped in an igloo, icicles land in the solace of my bed, tear drops turning into ice cubes before they fall on frosted sheets, not even a blanket to cover my sorrow and melt away the crystallized prison I’ve created in my mind.

The marriage ended, the separation lasted longer than I anticipated. Things integrated become things dissolved in the fissure. What began with a letter, ended in hieroglyphics cataloguing the divestiture missing the only vital piece to bind the relationship together, four words that could’ve changed the dynamics… love.  A division of assets left me craving the sole item I left behind, my heart.

Do I have regrets? The items worth noting are atypical of the norm.

I regret that it didn’t last, not that it happened. I regret that meeting him let me see how immature my longing for MYD really was. I regret that now you how have use your feet to tabulate the women you’ve had. I regret that the next girl will hear about me in late night conversations while you hold her in your arms. She’ll hear of me in the same manner that I heard of others: in past tense with minimal reflection of your impact on their lives, a voice tinged with targeted remorse, inspiring the attachment from the one you hold so tightly as she comforts you for your loss and contemplates how to be the one that doesn’t leave. I regret that I’m sitting ten feet away from the missing pieces of my heart and I wasn’t wise enough to bring a vacuum to gather up the stolen particles littering your rose-paved walkway. I regret that again I have to start from square one and build myself back into holistic form. I regret that I let you in so much that I now feel lonely and incomplete without you. I regret that you haunt my dreams and that memories of you cause me to burst into tears, floodgates that you opened when you entered into forbidden territory. I regret that I worry for you, that there are things left unsaid but knowing your response I close my lips with superglue. I regret that in the midst of the shit that is my life I want nothing more than to hear your laughter. I regret that I forgive you when you haven’t even said that you’re sorry. And lastly, I regret that my love wasn’t good enough to tamper your insatiable hunger.

Soon I won’t feel bereft; the amputated arm will have a prosthetic replacing the vacant limb and all things will function close to normal. Until that happens I’m left caressing the void, remembering the significance of the appendage, the necessity of its operation.

I should be angry, especially after you deserted me when I needed your help most. Especially when I broke my season of silence with you; when I swallowed every ounce of pride in large gulps to ask for your help; when you told me I could trust you, and that I could believe in you. Especially when I sat desolate in my apartment crying mountains at 10:30 at night after you jilted me without recourse. I still delivered the clever cards I had picked with gifts I thought you and the distorted mirror of you would like, would appreciate, would use. The lighted matchstick of your gifts creating cigarette sized holes in my purse, until I dropped them off with the last of your things, erasing you completely… until I waited restlessly for your acknowledgement. I wish I didn’t want to mean something to you.

Can’t you see how my heart yearns to misbehave? How it wants to move in your shadow until you notice the unnatural movement? How my hands itch when it thinks of what it touched? How my body leans when your smell swirls in the atmosphere?

I hate that though I want to, I can’t bring myself to think of you in a bad light. That only positive images flint in as light flickers announcing dawn, another night I didn’t sleep. I hate that in order to get over these emotions I have to relieve each and every one until they fade and the ache dulls. I hate that this is my journey because I agreed to invite you to my table at Ihop… no one should eat alone, right?

Soon I won’t feel this way. When I finally meet with you again, I won’t hyperventilate and ruin my mascara. But today at BBP while I watch you with longing, torturing myself with your proximity, knowing you didn’t notice me. Knowing that I could spot you even incognito, that the twin that’s you but not quite you doesn’t hinder my awareness of you. Knowing that you could pass right by me and not even know I’m here…the beating of my heart will still and I won’t feel anymore. Until then it’s time to leave Busboys.


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