Polaroids of a breakup

These are all that I have left of you; polaroids of a breakup, images of cracks that became fissures that broke bones. The images of our relationship from when it was blossomed and grew I deleted in a fit of rage as if to scrub two years from my memory. In the days and weeks after you left I could not bear to look at the images of our decline; perhaps not quite ready to finally let go. And so I’m posting these to you now, having sat at my kitchen counter one last time to see them with clear eyes.

We met as all people do; at a news stand. You peered over my shoulder to peek at the magazine I held and swore under your breath. Your annoyance jolted me into speaking, “Yeah, I know.” Over coffee the conversation soon turned from politics to our hometowns and, as your rage cooled, theatre. I swallowed my disregard for spoken word poetry and nudged my way into an invitation to accompany you to an unnamed performance the following week.
Your mouth tasted of floral wine in the doorway of your building. In the weeks that followed the scent and taste of your body rooted themselves in my spine.
We merged first ill-fitting circles of friends, then snug furnishings and finally conjoined routines.

I cheated on you. My reasoning that it was a man who tempted me (the truth is I tempted him) and not a woman did not quell your rage. That his mouth tasted of water and our bodies fitted together like leaves I never told you.
And so we spiralled out of control; shouting and pleading, promising confession and begging forgiveness until finally we were both overcome by exhaustion. We tried to mend the parted ocean with polaroids. There is one of me smiling on the couch, one of you planting tomatoes, another of you in the rearview mirror. But none of us together, only of each of us seeing the other. The last polaroid is the one that now wounds the most.
We were in bed on that final Tuesday night, you astride me in a t-shirt; another attempt at healing ourselves with sex. I swear, my god I swear that I had no motive other than to capture your beautiful face. I never intended to enrage you in my reaching for the camera on the bedside table. It just happened to be there and I swear that I wanted only to see your beauty. But the flash broke the spell and you rolled over and were irretrievably silen. The next afternoon your clothes were gone and a week later your books and vases, even your probiotics from the fridge.

I hope that it is not cruelty of me to send these photos to you now. I have looked at them one last time and perhaps you might want to too.

In hope of your understanding,
Mark