Sometimes i sit alone on my bed and hold onto myself; wrapping my arms as tightly around my body as I can. As tears stream down my face, I try to remember a time i felt whole.
A time when I wasn't broken.
I get up, shower, dress, eat breakfast and leave for work. I act like it is a normal day; like nothing has changed. I go through the motions. I say my hellos and goodbyes. I try to paint on a smile although i know it looks disingenuous. I repeat this same routine every day before I return home, climb back under my sheets, and cry myself to sleep.
I try not to think about what made me this way. Try to forget what haunts me whilst asleep and awake. BANG. I know it's in my head yet I still jump. BANG. It always seems louder the second time. I hear high pitched screams and cries. I hear footsteps moving fast in all directions. I hear men and women shouting. When I'm eventually pulled back to reality all I hear are my own cries. It's always the same.
I tried not to cry at the funeral. My sadness is mine. My truth of our love is my truth. I listened as the blonde sobbed. I watched as his family broke down. I listened to the eulogies describing a man who either they didn't know, or I didn't. I felt his friends hand in mine. I felt an encouraging squeeze. I pulled my hand away. It reminded me of him.
I try not to think of the happy memories as I fear that they're not as happy now. I try not to think of the stolen moments, secret meetings, knowing looks or touches that lasted both too long and not long enough. I try not to think about how it felt the first time we kissed; how just for a second, I felt as though I could actually feel the world stop spinning. I try not to think about how I realised I loved him too late; how I didn't appreciate him when I had him.
Sometimes I feel like he's stood next to me. Laughing at something stupid someone has said; smirking at a sly remark; holding my eye contact for too long. I always loved his eyes. Most of the time, one short glance could convey exactly what he was feeling. One wink could make me lose equilibrium. When his eyes were closed as he lay next to me, I would try to imagine what he was dreaming about; hoping it was me; knowing it would be.
Somehow, I think I knew 20 years ago that he loved me. His hugs would linger too long. He would touch my arm and I would feel electricity as his fingers would brush down to my hand. The girls would flock to him, but he always flocked to me. I told him I loved Peter and pretended that I didn't see the grimace or the flinch. I told him I was engaged and pregnant; his smile was disingenuous and his hug felt like goodbye.
When I saw him again after 15 years, the only evidence of the time that had passed was the slight wrinkles apparent on both of our faces. His smile still stole my breath. His touch was still electrifying. I felt alive in his presence. I used to feel myself hold on tighter every time we embraced. Now every time I think of this I hold my pillow closer.
The first time we kissed he stopped it too quickly. He tried to make apologies; I kissed him again. I will always regret running away that night. That's what I do; I run. I run from happiness. I run from hope of a new life. I run back to my husband whose touch makes my skin crawl. I run from love.
I run.
When I'm still, everything crashes. The noise is too loud. Everyone moves too fast. There are too many questions. There's too many looks full of pity. People don't say his name around me. I appreciate it. I appreciate people tip toeing around me like I may break. I think I probably will. I pretend like I don't see the hollowness of my cheeks. I act as though I don't feel the looseness of my clothes. I can't concentrate or dwell on this. Not when he is gone.
As he took his last breath, I hope he knew. I hope he knew that when I said it wasn't necessary; I hoped it would be one day. I hope he knew that when I said it was too much; I was just scared. I hope he knew that the last time I ran from him, I wanted him to chase me. I hope he knew that when I left him; it was because I loved him. I hope he knew that I loved him.
I loved him. I love him. I will love him.
As time goes on, my memories will fade. I may forget some of the reasons why I loved him. How his touch was electrifying. How his smile ignited my passions. How just being in his presence would placate me. Some memories may not burn as bright as others; but they will burn. He may not be here, but I will remember. I will remember a love that was fleeting but everlasting; secret but obvious; weak, but overpoweringly strong.
I will remember a man who changed me; changed my life.