Because I don't know what else to do with these memories that I can't shake,
thoughts that won't leave my head,
I write them.
A bare, purple painted cafe tucked into a back hallway
in a huge hotel
really wanted to be a Starbucks.
Where I went to get us a subpar breakfast of barely toasted, doughy bagel,
for something like four times the cost of the same thing at Tim's,
and a coffee for myself that was slightly better priced.
You brought your own tea.
You were always a way better shopper.
We'd both spend little, but
you'd find smart, cost effective ways to do things
whereas I would just not eat.
But I brought that over-priced, under-satisfying "meal"
to our room and set it down on the coffee table
beside the grapes we'd bought at the grocery store,
like a proud hunter dropping a carcass in front of his tribe,
and the smile on your face made me feel like Boyfriend of the Year.
Tropical storm and general penny pinching
stole possibilities.
Set me on edge, and you on guard.
I ruined our tropical vacation with a cold shoulder.
If I had opened my mouth,
the one that likes to talk so much about maturity and problem solving
on a broad social scale,
we'd have been sad, then happy, then healed,
and so much stronger for it.
I took your patience for granted.
Then, hungry and tired, worn down,
I just wanted to go back to the hotel and rest.
I don't think you quite understood my weariness,
but why I didn't man up, and made you leave the place
you were so excited to be
that we spent outrageous amounts just to get there,
I have no idea.
I guess because I am smaller than I thought.
Because a heart functions like a cemetery gate
saying "don't tread here" where the memories
are grave markers,
there is so much in this world I don't want to see;
it only reminds me of you.
I don't care if I'm supposed to be over it by now.
I know it makes living very hard.
I'm trying, and that's all I can do.
I challenge someone else to get over someone like you,
or something like us,
so soon.
We did talk,
and it did get better,
and we did make the best of that trip,
there was a lot of snuggling,
a lot of laughing,
and a lot of joy;
but I never shook the feeling
that I took something beautiful and made it suck.
Now, when I look at those pictures
treasuring each one like a breath,
I see only the laughter.
I guess that's how I'm supposed to remember it.
