The loneliness of two

This morning, said a week hence, was the first in too long that on waking I wished to get out of bed. That morn and the night afore I learned something I'd been trying not to learn for years.

It's been long a time since I've felt in full sorts. Not since leaving Reed, truth be told; though perhaps even that may miss the mark. But since then I've come to be a bitter, cynical, man— traits I neither endorse nor have wished to accept. It's funny though. Since realizing it, I've not felt that weight so severely. It still creeps in to cloud my mind from time to times, but recognizing it and knowing something of the cause makes it easier to avert from sinking in.

I ran into my ex-fiancée that night, online, first time we'd talked in months. She was worried because the next day she would have her beau's kids all alone for the first time and so was seeking moral support. The realization began to sink in as we were parting ways, she for insobriety and I for sleep— which too is an insobriety of sorts.

For those who don't know the story, we were together for about three years, though after ending it we still lived together for another before finally I moved out. And as sadly with so many lengthy relationships, it was over long before it ended. We had only to convince ourselves.

It's always strange, looking back. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that I still love her. Much as I expound upon their importance in objective circumstances, in dealing with people I've always had trouble with shades of grey. For all we never had a ceremony, it's all too like a marriage ending; you've grown so used to the other's presence, even if the spark is gone, even when you can't live together any more, you're not sure how to go about living apart. Do you want the kids today? Okay, well can I have the car? Or you could drive me there, no? well, we should go so I can drop you off then.

But until recently, looking back I would only see that liminal, perpetual, ending. It being so much more recent makes it harder to see further, to remember the first months and years, to remember what it was like to love without complication. Remembering how things used to be helps me to understand why I still care. She was too kind to me, kinder than I ever let her know.

There's a peace in brushing off the old limerance. After clearing the dust, you thumb through salty pages with their faded letters and gummy photographs. As each one crackles by eternity flows past. Memories forgotten, cherished smiles. Concern for the age and fortitude of the binding, but without worry.

The last page lingers, turns, and is empty. You wait. You close the cover. You put the book back on the shelf where you'll forget it. You close the cabinet and slowly click. The hollow brass of a key put down and left on the lacquered wood.