Hum

Thank you for the flowers. They are sitting on my shelf. I didn’t know what a marigold was until I met you. I’m glad I do now.

My daydreams are littered with the scars of you. Little tears and creases cradle my brain, trying to draw me back. They are hard to resist. But I do.

I do.

When our life together came to an end, all I wanted was to hold you close. I wanted to cry and beg and be enveloped in your arms again. In your scent. In your voice. I can still hear your voice in my dreams if I listen closely enough. Sometimes the trees speak in your tongue as the wind blows through their branches. It’s unbearable knowing that I may never hear it from your mouth again; only through my recollections and hallucinations.

A year goes by and it doesn’t get easier. Thank you for the flowers. They are still sitting on my shelf. They’re dead and crunchy and their scent is no longer sweet but I cannot let them go. No matter how hard I try I cannot throw them out. Their scent is rotten and putrid and vile but I’d still rather smell their acid than live a life without a trace of you left in it.

It’s hard to remember the bad times when I miss you so much. I try to conjure up the memories: the incessant arguing, me calling you names, you picking me apart-but these are not things my brain likes to dwell on. Instead it remembers the fairytale night when we went to the movies-when I had never been so in love. And I’ve never been more in love since.

It remembers our late night walks when we talked about the universe, and every dream I’d ever dreamt swum about in your eyes. It remembers the meals we shared, that I can’t cook anymore without feeling dreadfully alone. It remembers the marigold flowers that used to perch next to our kitchen sink. It remembers your dog. I miss your dog. But not as much as I miss you.

How did we float away from each other? When did love stop being enough?

Have you ever loved somebody so much that you’d let them kill you? I did. Although I’m still breathing, a part of me is dead. Where are you hiding the lightness of my soul? I didn’t mean for you to keep it. Could you deliver it back to me please, so I could reconstruct my being?

More time passes and it’s not easier, just different. I still think of you often but it seems more distant; far away. A past life disjointed from my present reality. Thank you for the flowers. Their dead leaves are pressed into my journal. The vase is gone and my room doesn’t smell of acid anymore. But still pieces of you remain.

I wonder what you’re doing but I don’t know how to find you. Your face is still etched into my eyes. If I see our flowers, or hear our songs, or the trees whisper in your voice-you’re with me. But most of the time you’re gone.

I saw a dog the other day that looked like yours and my chest brimmed with anxiety. I thought you might appear after it’s wagging tail. Instead it's owner was an elderly lady who didn’t look like you at all. My body felt immeasurable relief and wild disappointment all at once. A curious disposition.

At least my work is excelling, I think to myself. At least I’m doing the things I’ve always wanted to do. And it is enough.

But sometimes when it’s dark, I long for one of our midnight walks again. To feel you breathing next to me. To be understood so deeply.

For now, the whispers in the breeze will have to be enough. The crunched up marigold petals will bring comfort. My memories will have to replace reality.

Tears well up and I feel defied. One day perhaps a letter will reach you. I know you never checked your mailbox, so perhaps that is a tedious idea.