Situationship #2

I’ve been trying to write something that further defines the waves of the bay. But I’m unable to make it clever, to make it mean something to the desirable and the undesirable, and get an applause. I’m too honest for my own good…

I’m sitting here in the room, in front of the water, watching the waves crash along the winds as the city settles, moon peeking behind the sunset, announcing its wake. The T.V. is on behind me, disrupting my senses and the peace my mind desperately desires.

Then there’s him, breathing, sighing, being, existing, swiping through his phone as if the Earth depends on it, as if he’ll die without texting his friends or searching through social media. We’ve barely spoken today, and I don’t think he cares that much about me, cares that much at all. He must relish the silence, the awkwardness, the lack of connection and bond between us, now lost somewhere in an empty abyss. We haven’t touched each other since we arrived in the hotel. No hand holding, no hugs, not even the slightest little bump to the shoulder. He’s on the bed, I’m on the couch; quiet, silent, tense. He must relish the silence, the awkwardness, the lack of connection and bond between us, but I, I don’t.

I think I fall in love with memories, believe that’s what I should hold onto and disregard the person in front of me. I keep going back to the first moments we had, the first day we met, the beginning before the end. Isn’t it always like this? Aren’t we always quite delirious in the beginning and never in the end? We drown ourselves in this fantasy, in this dream-like sequence that we desire to last, and last forever. But then Reality sneaks up on you, comes with a sharp needle and pokes holes in your flesh, pulling you away from what’s dramatized to you, revealing the truth beneath facades. And yet, we still continue to believe this dream, that this fantasy exists, based on memories, based on our own fabrications.

So when he blasts the video from his phone behind me as I sit in the corner of the room, I attempt to sink in the serene waves of the lake before me and observe its deep breath strokes, its casual sighs.

He may never want you. I may never want him.

He may never love you. I may never love him.

But at least he’s here. But at least he’s here.

Just until he’s not. Just until he’s not.

And I’ll only have memories.

Yes, you’ll only have memories.

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