Aftermath of Avatar at Apollo, half a sliver that made me shiver.
Eight years of relationship, four years of living together. Text messages every morning and night without miss. Holding hands and kisses in public places. Him opening doors for you. “Eventually I want to get married, whether to a man or a woman, and I want to have children, whether my own or adopted. After all, what else are we looking for?” Building the connection piece by piece from the ground up since your University days and his high school ones. The first kiss, the first sex, your first love. And everything shattered with a photograph of him – in the shirt that you bought – and his new love, next to the love letter they wrote to each other. “I’m happy with him”, he told you on the phone after.
And here you are two years later, naked in my bed as I kiss the tears from your eyes, salty with the tang of heartbreak. Damaged souls consoling each other, rummaging for scraps of comfort in kisses and rubbing skin. I can’t compete with a memory, baby, and I’m not one foolish enough to ever try. All I can offer is a temporary respite, a passing relief, the knowledge that while you are in my arms you are infinitely, unconditionally loved.
And as I watch you sleep, I realise that although some things may never be forgotten they can be let go. But only if you want to. And only if you want it hard enough.
Every man is broken. Maybe I’m finally starting to get it right.