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Every time I walk through the park I see that spot, that untidy little piece of ground where you cried and I sat in stony silence until you were through. Until we were through.

I remember bitter concentration on a baseball game, far away on the horizon. I remember the buzz of flies and other such background insects in the blinding sun. I remember thinking that I shouldn't be so detached, that I should be feeling something, especially now. And maybe I did, but then I pushed it away and then I pushed you away. It's become a habit since.

And when you got out of the car that very last time, I said I would call when I wanted to talk to you again. It's been a year.

Sometimes I wonder who you are now, but I've never felt the urge to pick up a phone and find out. I'm too numb from all the buttons you pushed, from enduring each and every pinprick that somehow found its way into my guts. Every time you left I built myself up a little bit more, but inevitably you'd come back and we'd tear each other to shreds and burn the aftermath. It was twisted and dark and I loved it, but your final pin went straight through my eye and I twitched once, just once, before shutting down.

You see, my overactive imagination would never let me forget. I could never touch you again, knowing. I saw him, talked to him, and he was nowhere near good enough. Suddenly you weren't good enough either.

I never imagined that the walls would one day be too high and too thick even for you.

Posted by Chris at 12:33 PM