there are better things to be doing. more happy things to be doing. dancing. singing. laughing. reading a book. sitting happily. enjoying silence.
i sit here. not dancing. not singing. not laughing. not reading. not sitting happily. not enjoying the silence of this flat.
this silent empty flat. where for three years we were happy. i was happy. i was complete. i was full.
now. quiet. i don't speak. unless spoken to. and here. alone. there is not one person to ask me any questions.
i spend my time. wasting it. reading articles. from other women. who have lost and regained. who have found a way to fix what was broken. i read how men need space. how we women should let them "miss" us. we shouldn't communicate. we should let them simmer. and steep. until, like a cold tea bag, they remember what it was like to be warm. to be loved. to love.
i empty bottle after bottle. day after day. week after week. tear after tear.
i told him... i told you. not to read me. so you couldn't see the pain. see the raw sadness. see the hopelessness settle around my shoulders. so you couldn't see my duality. the me that i let you see when you visit. the old me. the happy me. not the me now. the me that is broken. empty. halved by an exile imposed by governments and our own indecision. the me that is small and crying and wishing for you. wishing for you to come home. to come back. to make this strange place home again.
all the articles. tell me not to say those words. tell me not to hope. not to wish. not to beg. not to cry. not to promise. not to speak.
but they don't know me.
they don't know you.
they speak of other men. other men who left. who were somehow cajoled into returning. men who were manipulated in some way. men who were always more willing. more willing to go back. to love. to trust. to forgive.
they don't know you.
they don't know how stubborn you are. how hardheaded. how intensely you can feel. or how intensely you can chose not to feel. they don't know how you are able to forgo friends and family. how in fact, unlike the saying... you are an island. quite happy to be alone. to only worry for yourself. and how your actions can affect you. to not worry about inhabitants. people. creatures. risk. to not have any of these things.
but i think you forget. even islands have worries. they can't control the weather. the tides. the ebb and flow. these destructive powers. in so many ways much stronger than the risk of loving and trusting one person.
why do i say these things here? and not to you. direct. personally. secretively. in a way that keeps your face from going hot and red. in a secluded place where others can't see. can't read?
i feel safe here. it's my little world. surprising is the fact that i am here. i should be curled in a ball. alone. in the dark. not speaking. not letting anyone in. spiraling into my despair. like i was. during those fateful seven months.
i should be angry.
but like i said. i can't.
i don't have much left in me. i've given it all away. it's traveled. quietly. down south. tucked inside a wallet. placed in a pocket. in a coat. on your arms.
and now i lay me down to sleep... i pray for someone, my soul to keep. if i should die. before you wake. i pray for someone... to notice.