The first time I saw an adult penis I was so afraid, as soon as I got home, I googled “penises” to see if it was normal looking. It was.
I take solace in the idea that even though it may feel like “the end”, it’s not the end because no one can ever really know when “the end” will truly be, when our final interaction will be, when the end will come.
Our perception of relationships with clear ends and beginnings is a perception.
It’s not that we’re not over: it’s that life is fuzzy, our interpretations more finite.
He only posts on Snapchat when he’s lonely. When he’s trying to entertain himself, stay busy, find meaning, find a connection: a beautiful flower worth sharing, a baked food that filled three hours of Sunday, a bird in the park: craving a little more, a little more connection, filling time, but not filled out, searching for meaning, flipping the page in the calendar I gave him to reveal a new pic, he only posts on Snapchat when he’s lonely.
I’m starting to feel like it’s a little extreme to never talk again just because, oh, I don’t know, we just decided we don’t want to spend the rest of our lives together. We should probably be able to throw in a concert or a hug here or there, without disrupting the rest of our lives. In the meantime, I’ll probably fill in the rest of my life with lots of other people, some better company, many worse. And honestly, we don’t know how long the rest of our lives will be. If it’s a day, I’d actually be pretty okay with spending mine with you.
We’d go to sleep, drunk and bickering, over and over again. I’d wake up first, anxiety fueled by the night prior’s duel, over and over again. I’d seek action, activity, anything to funnel my nervous energy into until he funneled his into open lids. I’d tip toe out of the room, out of the house. I’d dash to the store, sprinting down the street, pausing only to look both ways to cross the street, and scramble to find eggs, or flour, or fruit. I’d quietly whisk, dip, and flip a French Toast breakfast in bed. He’d awake without a care in the world.
Fuck this digital era in which two years after dating someone you can realize that they’ve been following you around the world, following your moods and music on Spotify