Forgetful

Falling out of love feels like a hot September sky, reading Bukowski at the bookstore down the street from his apartment, because you are twenty-four and an idiot. It feels like leaving before he wakes up because really, what would you say to him? 

"Hi, how are you, you're losing me."

Not that he would care. He'll be fine without me. Better even. It'll be a breath of fresh air when I'm gone. Like he's been living at the bottom of the ocean for ten months and suddenly, he surfaces. He probably won't even get the bends. But I will. I'll twist and scream and beg, and he won't mind. He'll tune me out like he does when I'm crying. 

"Here, baby, smoke something, you'll feel better." 

Like I'm easier to manage that way. Like no one could ever love me otherwise.

I will forget about the way he wrote me letters before he even knew me. I'll forget about that absinthe bar in Bushwick, where we were both too drunk to stand. I'll forget the way he looked at me in my Rolling Stones t-shirt and purple underwear, the way he reached for my hips without blinking, held me under the water, kissed the sand from my eyelids. I'll forget the way the moon looks in December, the way the ocean froze our pants to our calves and how hard we laughed trying to pull them off in that parking lot on Pacific Coast Highway. 

 I'll forget he ever laughed at all, ever kissed me at all, ever loved me at all, that I ever found room for myself to grow in one of the tiny compartments in his brain. I'll forget the way his handwriting looks on the front of an envelope, the way he only knew one line of that one Smashing Pumpkins song, and sang it over and over. I'll forget his stupid haircut, his chipped teeth, his grey t-shirt with holes around the collar. 

I won't forget what he said. That he'd rather be alone than be with me. That he only ever gave me 15% of his affections. That I was weak and pathetic for wanting to be with him. I wont forget the way he spat, "I don't owe you anything," like we didn't spend a year falling asleep in each others arms and getting stoned on his sofa. I won't forget that he was cruel, that he didn't care where I went as long as I left his apartment. That he didn't like my dog, and that he hated American Ultra. I won't forget the way he made the things he lied about sound so sweet. 

"I love your talking smile," he'd say. "I can be myself with you." 

So now, I do what I know how to do to take care of myself. I take a walk down Vermont Avenue, past the Rockwell and Marty & Elaine. I sit alone at a French restaurant in my new clothes and I drink champagne and soup and I forget what it's like to fuck someone who cares about me. 

Instead, I remember what it's like to survive that semi-truck that ran through me in New York last summer. How strong my bones are. How I didn't even cry. How I walked myself to the grocery store and bought a bag of frozen peas for my shoulder and some Popsicles for my bruised tongue. How invincible I am. How 83 tons of steel and rubber can smash into me and leave me whole.