Wanting to be Her Again

Where do you begin with a story like this? Do I try to start it off like everything else? I don’t even have an example for that. My mind is so strewn. Every which way that you look you’ll find bits and pieces of me as if an explosion went off and I was at the center of it.

I guess you could say that an explosion did go off. A series of them. Almost nightly. It got really bad towards the end.

Is it truly the end though? Must it be? Is that what he wants? Because if it is then who am I to get in the way?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, if you love it let it go and all that bull. I don’t think it will ever come back.

Does that mean that I never truly loved it? That I never truly loved him?

I mean I debated it often when we were still us. Us.

I loved him. I love him.

We were beautiful. Not all the time though, but who is beautiful all the time? We had sunny days, but when it got dark, I got dark. They all warned me that it was toxic, but what if it wasn’t toxic. What if I was toxic.

I was addicted. I began to crave the lows because they made the highs so much sweeter. The lower we seemed to got, the more numb the highs would feel. So numb that I would forget about the previous plummet and my never-ending list of reasons to leave slipped out of my hand on the way up.

I’ll collect bits and pieces of that list on the way down though until I reach the bottom, farther than I went before and begin to put the pieces back together.

It’s hard when you see yourself crumbling to pieces on that all too familiar floor that is rock bottom. It’s worse when you can’t break down alone, so you have to take them down too.

But there is a magical sort of beauty in putting each other back together again. It tricks the mind into believing that you guys can make it through anything. You could rip each other to pieces as many times as you wanted, and it wouldn’t matter because you will be able to put each other back together again.

You never realize until its too late that nothing comes back together the same way before it was broken.

So many pieces began to go missing, slipping between the couch cushions, under the rug, the small crevice between the refrigerator and the wall.

Maybe I was supposed to find those pieces.

I always knew where they were.

I just wanted him to want to find them for me.