#scintilla: heartbreak

Talk about breaking someone else's heart, or having your own heart broken.

I don't think I've ever had my heart broken due to romantic relationships ending. I haven't had many relationships where I've allowed people to get close enough to me to do so. 

I have tried to write this story many times before but never do it justice. I'm not sure I can now. So instead I'll tell you some things that are true. 

I loved my friend, deeply. We were inseperable from the moment we met. Like most relationships, not all the times were good. Like most tumultous relationships, when it was good, it was amazing. There were times I felt like the singular most important person in the world, simply because of how he treated me. We are both poets, wordsmiths and I fell in love with the version of myself as he saw me, someone I could never truly be but desperately wanted to believe that I could. 

Very few of my friends embraced our friendship.

The idea of us was magical. The truth of us was a rollercoaster. 

I think we connected over our sadness, over the things that happened to us as teenagers that other people could never really understand. Our damage, I suppose, connected us. We longed to create a space that was safe. We tended to exclude others at the expense of our solace.

There were moments of heartbreak before we went our seperate ways: 

like the September weekend where he laid in the middle of the road, screaming as if he were channeling Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire. Or the night, after he moved in with me, that I found the bottle of scotch, the one I'd bought the day before, empty, poems strewn across the apartment. The moment I let his doubt in love affect my own ability to let someone in. The argument where I finally realized I couldn't be in it anymore. I felt my pieces of myself, the hope I held that I could rescue us from ourselves, slip away. 

If he read this, he would tell me he never needed saving, that he loved me as fully as one person can love another person. I think he would say I disappointed him, that each time I write in this space, I give away pieces I should reserve for more serious writing, that I've become watered-down. And perhaps, I have, in some way, moved more to the middle than extremes. You can only live so long at the extremes and I don't have the stomach for it, or the liver. When I wrote about being reckless, I was thinking of him, of the way we used to live. 

He broke my heart in a million ways. And I used to regret it, which probably broke his heart a little bit.