“Writers write because our tongues seldom find the right words in the moment.”
– A. Tane
One day, you’ll ask me, “What happened?”
You’ll look into my eyes and they won’t dance for you as they once did, and it will finally matter.
You may not have memorized the special moments we shared as I have, which were followed by your characteristic withdrawal, but you’ll know the clues are tangled somewhere among those convoluted conversations where I translated heartbreak into words as best I could.
I was in love with you, and then I fell out. And it hurt because you just kept going, not noticing I wasn’t there anymore.
One day, you’ll see that you were right: I don’t have an elastic heart. And while love still lives here, hurt does as well. Actually, it’s weariness.
I’ve wearied of wanting you.
After all, my heart is MY responsibility.
So when you ask me, “When did I lose you? When did this happen?”
I’ll reply, “The day I took responsibility for my heart.”
That day, I realized my heart was too timeless to have thrown back on my face, even by you. My knowing of who we are is too solid to abide being treated like some old blanket you only pick up when you feel cold.
Life was moving too fast to wait for you to stop mistaking vulnerability for weakness, and intimacy for loss. Time was too short to abide your presumption that “we have time” because we don’t.
Time has us.
And it only gives us Now.
I could’ve continued waiting for you to choose, and trust, what we both know. Instead, I gave my heart to a keeper more trustworthy than both of us: God. So if you want to see about it, and me, seek Him.