There’s too much wreckage.
Someone I loved once said to me. It was the last time he and I spoke.
I’m getting pretty tired of this / you.
Someone I tried to love once sent this to me as a text. It was our last interaction.
There was good. There were hours of laughter. We had the best goddamn cherry pie and pulled it out of the oven while the theme from Twin Peaks played on loop. We drank too much and smoked weed and danced.
There was truth. There was the fact that I didn’t love him. It was easier for me to let him believe what he wanted. For weeks we entwined and intertwined.
There’s a point when dancing to Édith Piaf in the afternoon sunlight spins worlds far and beyond simple steps and twirls.
There’s a point when the games are no longer fun. There’s a point when the tapestry unravels. There’s a point when It is useless to try to catch the threads.
The good doesn’t change. It just will never look the same.
So we say good bye. So we cut and go and read the final words as we will.
The head-on collision of warped realities dissolve into separateness. We walk away from the smolder and smoke trying not to look back.
We take the shades of memories and construct meaning that is useful to us alone. They become the shadows of our new lessons. It becomes what we are meant to take with us from the wreckage.