Do I start with dear diary? Dear journal?
That sounds so trite. What about, hello friend. Are you though? My friend? It seems I have so few nowadays. No friends, just a breakup.
Ugh. I promised myself I wouldn’t write about it. Wouldn’t stain your pages with words about The Break Up. But I guess that’s the lie I told myself when I picked up my pen. I fully intended to write about It.
And why not? You won’t judge. It was my fault. All my fault. I didn’t pay attention. I was too obsessive. I didn’t love hard enough. I smothered. See? It was my fault. Do I sound bitter? At least it was Mutual. A mutual parting of ways. Mutually happy we kissed each other goodbye. Mutually contented we went to our cars to drive away. I wonder if mutual bawling on the bed for three days straight was part of the Mutual deal? I sound bitter don’t I?
I don’t care. The feeling’s probably Mutual.
I got the inevitable follow up phone call today. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Yes. It was actually said. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I cried. Privately, after I hung up. So much for Mutual.
I lay on my bed and contemplated just ending it. Taking some pills. Using a razor. It doesn’t matter how really. I won’t see the end result. I’m not going to have to clean up the mess.
I really thought I was going to do it. Then my fingers brushed over you and I wrote this instead.
I don’t think I’ll do it now. I think writing to you helped.
It was another hard day. I got out of bed. Made it to the couch. Then sank into misery.
It’s the loneliness that hurts the most. Knowing I’m alone in this house without another heartbeat around. Unless I count yours. But I don’t hear yours do I. I can’t hear yours. If I could maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely. I might be able to live without touch, without lips, without breath against my skin if I could just hear a heartbeat.
I’m tired. It’s been a hard day.
I was asked out today. Oh just for coffee – don’t go getting any ideas now!
I didn’t go. I couldn’t go. It just felt… wrong… to leave you behind. So I stayed in the empty house with you here by my side. It’s – you’re – a great comfort to me. Thank you.
Do you think about me? When you’re not reading? When you’re out in the garden or driving to work? Do you pause and think about me? Wonder how I’m doing? Wonder if I made it up out of bed today? I like to think you do.
I think of you. A lot. You who have picked up this collection of my words. You who are reading them now as I lay here on my bed. Can you feel me thinking about you? Close your eyes. Feel me.
I feel you.
I dreamed of you last night. I know it was you. I felt the same warmth I get when I write to you. You came close to me. Your fingers traced over my skin. I got goose bumps and you got the giggles. It was a sweet moment. Intense but sweet. Then I leaned close… my lips brushed yours…
Woken. Woken by a chorus of birds outside my window. I’ve never been so angry. So sad.
I think I’m going to go back to sleep.
I can’t do this anymore. Loving you – and yes it is love – from afar. Never to touch you. Never to see you. Knowing you. Knowing you know me but you can’t be with me either. It’s torture.
The things I could do for you – would do for you. I would treasure you. Honour you. Love you like the Deity you are to me. But you’re so far away. Reading my words, feeling my pain but not beside me.
And I fear.
I fear to lose you. When you go. When you finish reading. When my story comes to an end. I will lose you then, won’t I?
God I fear that.
I love you dearest one.
But I can’t do this. Not to you. Not to me. It has to end. Just promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll think of me when you read my final word. Promise me I won’t slip away into your subconscious.
Promise me dear reader
This is… my final word.
*Just a strange little piece that came to me one day. I like the idea of the person writing falling in love with the reader. It seems kind of magical somehow.
Anyway, make of it what you will!