I thought that I’d want the passion, the rampant passion, the rage. I thought that I’d want to screaming phone calls, and the fuck you’s, and the nasty text messages, and the threats via facebook chat, and sending you pictures of memes on my computer screen. I thought that I’d be angry. Mad at you. Upset at everything.
Not this time. Instead I am overcome with a rather blissful ennui. A lifted sense of I don’t give a fuck, peppered with an occasional smattering of a thought pattern along the lines of, “God, he was a piece of shit.” I can’t make myself care about you anymore.
I’ve been looking at pictures of us, the ones on my phone that you sent me a while ago. At one point that kind of thing would have made me cry, but today I deleted all of them and I still don’t regret it.
This has been such a disappointing break up. It’s been so tame. So mature. So clean and pleasant. Well communicated and adult. Neither one of us giving way to childish behavior and maliciousness. All of which disappoints me, because I really wanted to go head to head with you. I wanted to fight you tooth and nail about absolutely everything. I wanted to go to war with you, not so that either of us could win, but just because it would have felt so good to fuck you in a way that wasn’t actually sex but was the all out ungodly orgasm of screaming and screaming and screaming and the passion of screaming at you all night and every day, and then when I was done, which would not be any time soon, I could collapse back into a puddle of myself, exhausted and spent from days and days and weeks of just screaming. It would have felt so good, and it would have felt so good to do that together, and then to capitulate, back into each other, together again and back to that old trope called in love.
But, no. That didn’t happen. Instead we have quietly petered out into old memories and the next time we see each other in this tiny, squished up little city full of few attractive people and the rest are just trying their darnedest to get laid, we’ll see each other and cordially nod. Civil and mature, not saying much, just a hello and goodbye, as though the time that we had had together when caressed in deep arms was a nothing that can relegated to an era of nonexistence. We can forget each other, and in that forgetting I can remember all the reasons why it didn’t work out between us, but not all the ones that I used to tell myself as to why it should have worked out. The “we could have made it” is gone forever, and in passing I will see you but you have already passed from every fantasy, and the first time we fucked is not worth me thinking about anymore, and neither is the last time, so onward we go.
I read the Craigslist Missed Connections today and found one with your name in it, but I did not send you the link.