An Ordinary Sunday

I’ve been thinking a lot about the ordinary days, the ordinary moments when in a millisecond, everything we know and hold dear changes.

It’s Sunday, September 13th, 2015 at around 6 pm. I’m in the backseat with one of my friends, coming home from dinner and planning to head out again to a brewery for a couple of pints of a limited release brew

and then…

He’s passed away, his best friend said from the other end of the line

I couldn’t breathe. I remember clutching my heart in some irrational attempt to try and hold the pieces together. It could only be because my heart understood then what my head couldn’t: he was gone. Dead. The word was too strong for his friend to say, but I understood what he meant.

Or rather, at least my heart did.

It made no sense but explained everything then- the unanswered calls and texts over the last few days, the plans for the weekend he never got to make with me… That wasn’t like him.

It wasn’t like him to drop dead either.

just an ordinary Sunday 

an ordinary day in the Fall

Life changes in an instant and it’s gone just as fast, too. I’m not sure what’s more terrifying to me now- the fragility of life or the destruction of death.

Paul has passed away, he said

And I stood outside under the falling leaves, clutching whoever and whatever I could as I tried to hold on to any sense of reality left in my world.

Just an ordinary Sunday

an ordinary day in the Fall






Truth no. 3

He’s been calling,texting me the usual how-are-you’s that are always full of emptiness and devoid of care.

I never answer-I can’t.

My heart is already too shattered to be broken again.

“What do you want to say to him?” you once asked when we were both high and drunk

and I remember chocking back on my words, unable to speak

so instead I just closed my eyes and wished

that he would apologize for being a hypocrite my entire life, knowing all along that the day would never come.

He has no depth for apologies.

He doesn’t care for them at all unless they are directed towards him-

my favorite narcissist.

Unsent Letters

When I had my first heartbreak, I wrote hundreds of letters filled with things I felt I needed to say to him.
I never sent them. They sat there, occupying the space his body used to take while serving as some kind of therapy, a cover to my silences. No one seems to get it, but sometimes, some people aren’t worthy of hearing the pain in your voice, the shaking your heart sends over to your vocal chords and which you just. can’t. disguise.
So write. Write your feelings away until there’s nothing left to write about.
I write, still. Letters that no one reads, that no one sees. Once I get it out on paper and I hold in my hands the emotional weakness my heart seems to be able to admit, then, and only then, I can begin to let go of the pain your non reciprocated love seemed  to bring to me and these blank pages, scattered with words and nonsense and feelings I can’t understand nor define.
But darling, don’t feel special. You weren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last to break this heart of mine. There will be other subjects, I’m certain, so enjoy your time in the limelight.