Six

My love,

I’m writing this to you because I have rarely missed you as much as I do now. How do you live when part of you died? How do you breathe when the fucking pain in your chest stops you halfway through the motion? What was it? The other guy spat it out? It doesn’t matter. You know, you must know how much I miss you every day. You know how easy it is for me to forget where I am and what I’m doing and remember everything. Replay it. Rewind it. Relive it. Cry. Do it again. Sob in my own arms. Be sick with pain.

She’s off marrying someone. I’m under the desk in my room, plunged in darkness, sitting on dust. I’m not crying, but that’s only because the tears refuse to fall. Like lint, like the unwanted, they cling to me and I cling, in turn, to myself. How easy it is to forget loneliness and then have it hit you. If I can’t have you, I’ll take the loneliness. It’s not even that bad half of the time. I’m surrounded by people, they tell me this and that and I find it fascinating for about eight seconds before I remember you’re not with me and what’s the point of it really? You used to tell me I’ll be a famous writer one day. Your fingers on my spine, tapping my skin to get my attention. I’d snort and tell you to shut the fuck up, I’ll be a crack whore. And you would rest your forehead on my shoulder blade and chuckle, tell me I’ll be your crack whore.

Take me to you, with you. Please.

I’ve felt this way before, remember when I wrote to you daily, numbering those little messages, much like I do now. I miss you so much, my love. My life. My liver and lungs and my heart and my soul, the chipped red nails and the chapped lips that you’d tell me I need to put moisturiser on. And I’d call you a pussy and you’d cuddle me for hours, blaming it on your dick pms or some shit like that. You were singing to me at four in the morning, when I was high off my tits. My head was bobbing and you told me I make a perfect groupie. How, I asked you. Perfect audience, silent and hot.

Please. I’m begging.

My guitar was in your hands and I found your fingers fascinating. You were singing that Romanian song I love so much, speaking of breaking up and loss and I never thought it would be us. I thought, in the idealised way that only a person who’s in love can, that we would find ourselves getting married. I’m still wearing your ring, I always will. Elizabeth married the kingdom; I marry the dead. The lost. The never returning. The pain. The blood that pours. The horrors of going to sleep and the horrors of waking up. This never ending circle of agony I walk in and sometimes spin in place, to make more of it.

If I could, I’d burn myself right into you. Do you think your ashes hold your essence in a microscopical way? Do you think my ashes could make love to yours? Do you reckon anyone would know? And if they did, why should we care, we’re dead anyway.

That first Christmas was something I had been looking forward to for ages. I would have actually taken you home to my mum, pass you as a friend and enjoy stupid times with us. I would have told her we’d watch a film and we might have fucked or not, and just cuddle instead. You’d have gone home at midnight or so and call me as soon as you were downstairs to tell me that my mother is truly as mental as I had told you. I had vodka instead, Chris Rea and a cut or twelve.

Please.

We scratched and hurt each other’s growing pains.

Please.

Please.

Please, my love.

Sometimes I hold my own hand when I go to bed and it almost feels like you. I have nice dreams, or horrible dreams. Either way, I wake up crying, maybe a nosebleed. Either because I want the dreams to happen or because I’m so scared. I reach for you, years (!) later and you’re not there. Surprise. I cry even more then.

No, I’ll never stop loving you. I’ll never fall out of love with you. I’ll never have closure because you deserve better than closure. You deserve this horrid sappy romantic nature, you deserve my entire heart and soul – sometimes you’ll have to share one of its corners with someone else. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on that happening for a long time.

Now come to bed.

Or better yet, take me to yours. We’ll fall asleep together and we’ll never wake up. We always said how important it was to smile to each other when we’d open our eyes. But you also said that snakes should have tiny feet so they could wear tiny high-heels, and I also said that they’d sway their hips on the way down the stairs, so we might not be right.

Cause I can’t love you enough.

Please.

I’ll be waiting.

My all and everything more than that,

Jo – the one love you never finished.

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