Confused

I’m going to write all this down.  Every horrifying act that I let go. Or held on to and hoped you would erase.  I saw the glimpses. This amazing person, with energy and a good soul. He was kind, and attentive. He genuinely cared about my happenings and my thoughts and wishes. Then he met me, got to know me, and found the pedestal on the floor.  I wasn’t amazing, I wasn’t fun. I wasn’t carefree and easy breezy; I was jealous and insecure. Always wondering and watching and waiting. Waiting until he broke my heart again.  Then I convinced myself he wasn’t. That I actually would just have to trust him, like he said all those times.  He began to be attentive again, cuddling, professing his affections and love.  Then he was gone.  He decided to come home for a week-long goodbye.  It was one of the best weeks of my life, we ate out, we talked, we had sex, and we reminded each other why we were in a relationship in the first place.  It meant more to me than it did to him, he left while I was at work.  I came home and he was gone.  The house was empty, his presence lifted and the feeling open.  I hated walking into the bedroom and seeing the bed neatly made, without a Christopher bundled in the covers.  He seemed to always be there, in his spot.  It is where he laid when he ate too much pot and he had a schizophrenic break.  Catatonic, he lie there while Dr. Oliver took his temperature, gave him a shot, and told him he would feel better, we all cared about him.  It was where he did his work, or searched for work, where he listened to his music and watched his podcasts, where he watched marathon seasons of How I Met Your Mother, and Lost, before it got too sci-fi for his liking.  It was where I laid on him, fitting into his body perfectly.  He always said that was his favorite part about us.  How we fit so comfy.

Author's Note

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