They say that when you lose someone, a little piece of your heart dies. The metaphysical heart, of course, not actual tissue. That happened to me today, only it wasn’t a little piece . . . it was the last piece. Metaphysically, of course. I’m still standing here . . . you know . . . talking to you. I can’t do that if I’m dead. Unless, of course, you believe in ghosts. I’m no ghost. I am a shadow of my former self.
A relationship died today. Actually, it was murdered. It was a cold, bloodless murder. Probably a poison of some sort; a poison mind, harsh words and a lack of faith.
Maybe I’m full of shit. Maybe nothing’s dead. Maybe my heart, my hope, my very soul has merely been placed on the sixty-day disabled list retroactive to two days ago when I knew the relationship was going down. Maybe I’ll be over this and I’ll come back and have a good year. The best year I’ve ever had.
This relationship had died once before, but rose from the dead like Lazerous. It was a fucking miracle. For five glorious months I was the luckiest girl alive. Hope taken away . . . hope given back. Despondent and desperate one day . . . cautiously optimistic the next day. Then more optimism. Hope came back. Scar tissue formed on my metaphysical heart and I could dream again. I had a vision of happiness and tenderness for the rest of my life. I saw two old people really loving each other. I saw a contented, mutual death in each other’s arms. I saw the arc of our life on the upswing. The only threat was a Spring rain. I saw perfection.
Not any more.