I visit it sometimes—the ghost town of you and I. Usually when the city is asleep. The home I built for you is all boarded up now. It’s filled with the plants that never survived my watering. A home I keep paying rent for, should you ever decide to tear down the nails and planks that now cover up the light inside. Your name slowly became synonymous with the feeling of melancholy and all I could do was watch it happen. The realization of loving myself a little less each time I tried to love you a little more was a heartbreaking one. In my determination to not join the list of people who let you down in this lifetime, I failed to acknowledge that you were adding your name to mine. The daily battleground of my head versus heart wasn’t for the faint of heart, and one I wish I never signed up for. Then again, nothing about you and I was faint-hearted. We were never fair-weather people.
Scorpio season witnessed the rise and fall of us, but between those two Novembers was also the story of two kids crashing into each other with vicious intensity. Right in the middle of the ordinary, there was you—dripping in magic. “I feel like this was supposed to happen. Like we were both supposed to meet each other at this time.” I often wonder if your lips remember those words, like muscle memory. You always handled my sharp edges so gracefully. Gently. Forgivingly. Something I wasn’t used to and like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to your softness towards me. Even burning towns radiate light and fire, but I learned that even though you were warm, it did not make you safe. And the day where you show up to stifle those flames never came.
Somewhere between the first and the fifth sorry, my anger shifted from you to myself. Somewhere between the first and fifth let down, the forgiveness no longer laid in giving it to you, but to me. How do I tell this heart of mine the attempt of making something you believe in work requires forgiveness? That the desire to protect and build on something enchanting wasn’t valiant. I was so busy emptying my cup trying to fill yours that I ignored the signs that maybe you never wanted yours full.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that if you were to ever pass me the pen, I would keep writing the story of us. That I hope one day you’ll visit the ghost town of you and I with me.