A breakup is like being barred from an island.
You sit in dumbfounded silence, clothes ragged, on a lifeboat several miles from the shore. You stare onto the lush shoreline longingly and recall what it was to roam the land freely.
Why wasn’t it enough?
You have your boat. You power the weak engine and it startles you. You sail onward until the island is a tiny speck, unrecognizable. From now on, you can only recall that there were beautiful parts and there were ugly parts. For now, you can only trust that your battered wooden boat will guide you safely to the unknown–someday, somehow.
Give me months, give me summer to recharge my solar panels and feel whole again.
No one talks about the quiet parts. When you lock the door to your apartment and sit upright in your bed. The sheets and comforter like a mound of week-old mashed potatoes, untouched at the corner of the mattress. There’s something nice about staring up at the ceiling tiles. About knowing and recognizing fear in the slow quiet of a Tuesday morning.
What does my heart say? My heart is a condemned building. The floorboards once strong and sure, now rotted and dangerous.
The renovation will be slow and steady. For now, I’ll stand out front. I’ll remember the patches of grass, once trim and neat, now monstrously overgrown. I’ll know that nostalgia is a trick, it’s the letting go that will lead to being sure again.
I’d like to be sure again.