Ten Ways To Say Goodbye

TWO

We might have been soulmates, you and I.

We might have fought in the sand-pits of our youth, bruised our knuckles, skinned our little teenage knees.

But, as it was, we were lovers, and our arguments played out on a completely different plane altogether, for we were young no more. Drunk on the freedom of adulthood, we feasted on what each of us had to offer the other.

You offered me your soul. It was white and pure and good. You nursed my wounds on those particular nights when I brandished broken bottle, crowbar, carving knife and charged at others in a dark alley lit only by the fires of our fury. I still remember how gently you dabbed at my skin; never had I felt such tenderness, and even if I had, I would never have guessed it could come from you.

You offered me your home. Mistakes are made, you said, tests are failed. And boys - no, men like you find the doors to their homes barred. But you welcomed me in, an exception, to your space, your world, your bed. Your profusion of welcome was touching enough, but you didn't really have to say anything - you were here, that was all I needed. There was nothing to say. So I basked in your presence while you mistook my silence for coldness.

Perhaps we never really saw eye to eye. Perhaps we were never on the same train. Perhaps we were never truly in love.

No.

I was. In love with you, what I thought you were, what I thought you could be. And, I was happy. I found some sort of strength, when you were around, to see the meaning in things; to find the beauty in life. I never said anything, but if you had wanted answers, if confirmation was what you were searching for, you only had to look into my eyes.

Now, again and again, I find myself asking why: why we were scared to share, why we ran away from each other, why we did what we did, why you never told me if you loved me, whether you loved me or not.

Do you know, you left a mark on the bathroom floor? It's shaped like a heart; a reddish-brown heart of a love long dried. And I still can't bear to clean it away. I think I believe it might be yours.

I still miss you, sometimes, when you're away. There's an empty space in bed; my wounds never completely heal. And always, always, there is a shadow of a shadow of a dream about you.

We might have been soulmates, you and I.