This Was Never A Love Story

This is what’s going to happen the day after he leaves you heartbroken in the parking lot that was once home to all your favorite moments. You’re going to wake up with last-place night’s makeup stained on your grey pillowcase and reach over to his surface of the berthed out of habit because, for approximately three seconds, you’ll forget that he’s gone. You’re going to curse the daylight for her fearlessnes to still rise when your world travelled night exclusively 12 hours ago. You’re going to draw your blackout shrouds tightly and you’re going to tuck yourself back in berthed, your heartbreak playlist vibrating through your headphones.

You are going to lay in fetal standing and feel the evident value of his absence. You are going to clutch your chest in between guttural sobs and check your pulsing to make sure your heart’s still overpowering. You’re going to get up and ransacking through your wardrobe when you recollect the heap of his hoodies folded in the back. You’re going to ascent into your favorite one while you scroll through your phone, looking at all your missed calls and textbooks. None of them matter. None of them is him.

You’re going to jump out of bunked and slam his hoodie off because his scent is lingering in the air and you’re going to convince yourself that you can’t breath. Because you can’t. Not without him. You’re going to run outside and choke for air.

You’re going to run back to that parking lot–back to that extremely distinguished and flashback to where he first told you he loved you and then where he told you he was leaving. Back to the spot where he “ve told you” it was over. You’re going to trace your gradations from the light before–trace your stairs from all the times you walked the same black pavement. You’re going to try to find clues in the fissures. Signeds in the spaces between parked autoes. Signs in all the quiet, intimate minutes in that parking lot. Signs that you would have seen this coming.

Maybe I was so desperate to know cherish again that I made a home out of your nerve before I noticed the shimmer No Vacancy sign outside your window. Maybe because when I was 19, I “ve fallen in love with” a green-eyed boy who mistook my kindness for weakness. Who kissed me a little too hard-boiled. Who never asked for permission. Who chortled when I told him no. Who never helped if I was okay. Who never attended at all. Maybe it was because when we sat in front of an ice cream shop that July night and I asked about him, you listened. Maybe because you dared to hear me in a way no one ever had before. Maybe because you compiled me feel like I deserved better. Maybe I believed you. And maybe that was my mistake.

Maybe there’s nothing beautiful now. Maybe there never was.

Maybe I kept my face so far towards the sun that I was blinded to all the destruction around me. But we were a love story, weren’t we? Midnight gaits arm in arm, communications in the middle of a multitude disallow. Poring over records, and music, and artwork. Stolen smacks and gazes across the room. I Love You’s and I Need You’s and I’ll Never Leave. Nature steps and drives across position cables. Guiding through my parking lots in the dead of winter. Whisky on our wheeze. Tangled expanses. The 1 a.m. entitles. How you begged me to leave you alone. Lying on the sidewalk. Screaming on the cobblestone. Crying in your arms. My breath on your neck. Your limbs around me. Your hand on my chest. You telling me you affection me. Me wanting it to be different. Me wanting it to be enough. The darknes we drove for hours trying to get an answer. Speeding down the highway. The goon in my throat. The room I move back when you come in for a hug. Your justifications. The ceremonial gape you “ve been given” when you told me to tell you if you were injure me. The stillnes that crowded the air.

Because yes, of course. But it was less of a hurt and more of a squall desolating through my rib cage leaving me with nothing but a pile of debris. And maybe I participated provokes when I should have find rubble. Maybe there was magic in the prologue and desperation in the postscript. Maybe I have always been a mess of a girl begging to obligate roots and a residence out of a chick who are interested in nothing but to restore his broken backstages and fly. Maybe my adoration is a hunger and your affection is a thirst and water precisely won’t ever are available to replenish me.

Maybe this was never a love story.

But we’ll always have the parking lot. The parking lot where I called after you when you threw your hands in the air and fucking walked. The parking lot where you picked me up and spun me around and told me you cherished me. The parking lot where you planted a kiss on my forehead in grateful and regarded me after receiving life-altering news. The parking lot where we have all our big times. Where we’ve sat for hours looking at the stars, talking about the vastness of all countries of the world. The parking lot where we grew up. Where we faced hard truths and dreamed big-hearted dreams. We’ll always have that parking lots where my statements were lodged in my throat. Where I tried to scream for you, but all that came out was a hoarse little “Come back.” We’ll always have that parking lot because you came running back, just for a second, because you knew. You knew what the rift in my spokesperson meant–you knew what I was trying to say. You knew that I needed you back, but you knew that you had to let go.

Maybe we were just two ships extending by, and maybe I held onto all our moments and strung them together and dared them to make sense. Dared them to be our legend. Because when I close my noses right now, I am back in that parking lot, and we are sitting in your gondola, and I can feel it. The sigh of your leaving. You’re wearing your last goodbye on your face and I am controlling my dresser, ogling out the window. Because looking at you be interpreted to mean that I love you and appearing apart means forgetting what those eyes mean to me. Ogling away wants putting a suspension on a closing opening. Looking apart makes hanging onto the yarns that you are letting start of. Looking apart means that this story isn’t ours to tell. This narrative was never ours to tell. Maybe these were the signs all along. And maybe I was too blind to see them. We’ll ever have that parking lots, but we’ll never have a love story, because this … this was never a love story, even if it was.

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Written by WHS

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