I don’t like the idea of someone having to tell you that I am still pretty because that is how long it has been since we’ve seen each other. I don’t like that you wouldn’t know for yourself. And more than anything I don’t like it because I m not sure it’s the truth anymore.

I think I was pretty. I have a picture from that day; that day we spent in bed. I know it’s from then because I know what I was wearing, and I know I didn’t take it. Looking at it now I can see both my hands, and I’m a fuzzy wreck. Everything’s messy, but also pretty.

I can’t find that in myself anymore. My hair’s straight and stubborn now, and my skin is angry. I have eyes that could shatter, and I might only smile when a camera commands it.

Sounds appealing doesn’t it?

I might not be pretty anymore, so maybe no one will tell you such a dishonest truth. But that doesn’t stop me from disliking the fact that you won’t have the ability to refute any such comment. Not that I have any idea what you look like right now. Maybe you have gone grey, and only wear navy blue sweat suits. I have no idea. Maybe I don’t want to know. I probably do just want to keep the memory I have of you.

I have found the greatest hurdle in overcoming what was, the fact that there are others; there have been others who spent days with sweetness on their lips and poetry in their fingers. And yet, you, you are always there, waiting to act as a measuring stick, upon which all others must be judged. And there in your shadow sits this moment, when against better judgment I remain tethered to your whispered greatness.

If the last few months are any reflection of the space reserved for you and I, the chance is we would rather see what was than what is. Reality isn’t as pretty as what was. Nonstop earthquakes of heart stopping first impressions do tend to keep better than the evolution of some potentially great emotion.

Options for great emotions don’t have a shelf life. They are like vibrant bursts of firework hopes that light up dark moments, but then fall in ashes around us, scratching our eyes and burning our throats when we get too close.

I might have rather never known you, than know that you would never want to stand in front of me in a light not brought on by a burst of Independence Day light. In the end though, if I didn’t know you, would I have ever really met the person I wanted to become?

You have ruined me with a broken heart disease I hate attributing to you. Too much power given when so little is returned, but there is nothing I can say to bring you back again, all I know is what is falling through.

You aren’t my everything. But you might be my great thing…

Or I might have had too much iron and (red) wine tonight.  

mj