Next Time

You called it a date the first time, so I guess it would've been our second date. Or maybe not. But it definitely would have been the "next time" we've talked about so often. Something inside me was screaming not to take the bait, but I decided to humour myself and see where it might lead to. It didn't take me long to find out though, because as I had predicted, you bailed at the last minute. Again. And in true you fashion, as if it would somehow make up for all the times you bailed on me, you just said "next time..."

Ah, Next Time. A mythical creature I keep chasing. It's very clever and extremely elusive, yet you somehow managed to make me feel like all I had to do was call out its name and it'll come running. But it never did. And it never will. Because Next Time does not exist. I could be screaming at the top of my lungs and I'd still be chasing my own shadow. Next Time is simply a bait that keeps me in the same cage I've always been for the past 3 years. A cage I could no longer fit in.

It took me a while to realize that the door to my cage had been unlocked all along and I just had to step out to be free. You never really wanted me, but I deluded myself into thinking that you did. Why else would you have fed me with the idea of Next Time? It couldn't have been all bluff. There had to be something. But I'm done trying to make sense of the things you did. I know that whatever your reasons are will never be good enough for me. Not anymore. I guess that's what made it so easy for me to step out the cage and feel nothing. No familiar pang of agony, no despair—nothing.

I thought that when this day comes I'd have a lot more to say. I thought that when I finally take off those blinders I'd be pouring over pages and pages of repressed emotions. But I guess when you're done, you're done. I ran out of tears for you, and now I'm running out of words too. All I have left is a line or two telling you to take your Next Time and shove it where the sun don't shine. I'm not falling for that again.

Until Then

I dreamt of you again last night—probably the second time this month, which is weird considering how long it’s been since we last spoke. I was at a buffet table struggling to get some soup when you approached to help. As my bowl was almost filled to the brim, you tipped it over and laughed. My eyes were fixed on the contents of my now-empty bowl that ran all over the table that I hardly noticed you walk away. It’s funny, but that’s exactly what happened between you and me. You filled me with hope before pulling the rug under me, and I am left struggling to get up and pretend like I knew all along how all of it was going to end.

It’s been a while since I last wrote about you, and for a moment there I thought I was done. But I guess I’ll always be writing about you, dreaming about you, until the next heartbreak comes along.

The Dance (October 29, 2013)

Here we go again. The dance.

You take my hand and I let you take the lead. We move our feet to a familiar beat and I find myself slowly slipping. You do your signature, the strut that’s so fascinating, and I’m reeling myself to get it together.

No, not again.

You twirl me and twirl me and transition to samba, but my tired feet longs only for the waltz. You twirl me and twirl me, but I am out of breath and I start to slow down. Still you twirl me again and again. But as momentum builds up, you let me go and I fall flat on the floor. Again. Like how it always ends.

As I struggle to pick myself up and stand again, I find you no longer there. You have no use for me any longer so you move on to find another partner. Alone with a hollow chest and shaking knees, I again am left with nothing but the memory of the dance I know so well.