There are nights when I’m still burning with passion for all the things we did and all the more we could have done. These nights I don’t sleep at all. I toss and turn in my bed for hours, ardent and wanting and alive. Other nights I sleep well, and I wake up laughing at all the others when I don’t.
‘What am I losing sleep over?’ I wonder every morning. ‘There is blood singing in your veins. You can do so much more, you can be all that you want. Move on from the stories you knitted with theirs, for they belong to neither of you now.’
But it takes little more than a couple of hours spent in this mundane background with a splash of surreal I call my life to want to return to fantasy.
Every memory knocks violently on my doors, windows, even cracks in the wall, begging me to play it first. They all contain his face, his voice, his hands. There are so many. He happened for long days and torrid nights, and it all felt like a little lifetime. My steering wheel still has his fingerprints.
I let go of myself and the world around me to get lost in the sweet, secret, delicious ambiguous feelings that he stirred and stirred and stirred, that now I can’t stop myself from stirring. These memories make the familiar calm come back to me, and I am safe from emptiness once more.
I know I need to drain my sadness out through ink and tears, and get out of this loop. Let me just see him one more time. Play.