They’re out again tonight.
Not that I asked to know what they’re doing, they still think it’s okay to tell me. Show me the life I walked out of. And maybe it is for some people, maybe some people can handle seeing what they lost.
I’d be with them if I was still there.
Or would I?
Long ago, when we first met I’d be with them. Then everything went downhill. Bits of me began to fall off the faster I went.
I’m not feeling particularly anything recently, I just feel dead. If that’s even a thing. If death could be felt. The absence of everything. The absence of caring. The absence of not caring about not caring. So on and fucking so on.
I was imagining how that last conversation would have gone with him if he hadn’t known I was bleeding, if I’d worn a jacket to cover the stab wounds. Oh and if I hadn’t passed out on our door step.
I think he would have been hesitant, maybe even resistant, to let me into the house. My house. I fucking paid for it and he asked me never to come back. I’d say I was drunk and just needed some water. He’d let me sit in the living room and I’d be bleeding, but he wouldn’t know that.
We’d talk and I’d say everything I needed to, everything I wanted to. He’d say something about something. I’ve given up trying to guess what he was thinking and feeling. Maybe he’d even laugh and I’d drift off sitting in my favourite seat on our couch, staring into our kitchen.
Instead I slumped against the door bell, stayed conscious long enough to see him answer the door in his pajamas and mouth my name before I passed out and my head slammed into the concrete. I woke up in the hospital hours later after being sown back up.
I missed my last chance to say goodbye.
Fuck closure.