August 18, 2020

If Only I Could Just Let You Go.

I closed my eyes and imagined putting all my memories of you in a wet cardboard box.

And then giving it to the goats next door to nibble on, before sending what was left of your image and emails to Saturn.

If this is what it feels like to be heartbroken, then I pray what keeps pounding in my chest to turn into a solid square that not even glass can scratch. I wish in your next life for you to be the wood floor of my house so you can experience what it feels like to be stepped on repeatedly, and have to carry the weight of the heart you so carelessly smashed.

Maybe this pain is in my mind.

Maybe there’s a light at the end of this tunnel.

Maybe I’ll heal.

It’s going to take a while though.

You see—attachment is messy, and the day I attached to you, I superglued my untethered being to your skin, secured our connection with duct tape, and cut the words “let go” out of every book on mindfulness I owned.

The goats started nibbling on the box of my memories of you and I stopped them. I thought I was ready to say goodbye, but I’m not.

Maybe you’ll never return.

Maybe you are done as you’ve said.

Maybe this is true, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be done loving you.

I took the box away from the goats, took out the memories of you, and put them in a beautiful yellow container under my bed.

I’ve decided that maybe I don’t need to let go.

There may no longer be superglue holding me to you, but neither love nor my memories of you are tangible items to destroy. I can pretend to send you somewhere for a while, but you’ll forever be with me.

I loved you after all.




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