I sit here at night, smoking cigarettes even though I promised I’d quit six packs ago. I sit here, on a brick step, tossing butt after butt on the ground. And there you are. In my head. There you are. And you stay there even though I have every right to say “I quit.” I quit you, I quit smoking, I quit drinking, I quit cutting, I quit you, I quit you, I quit living. It’s so easy to not plan for the future because I’m leaving soon, because the only thing I’m okay with quitting is breathing.
But I could so easily quit every other terrible addiction I have. I could quit you. I could hate you. I could sit here and delete your pictures on my computer, toss the ones I have in the trash, forget you. That part wouldn’t be so simple. You’re here. In my mind. That won’t be forgotten. I called you and you called back and that’s kind of where things died.
You made some promises and I made myself believe you. And there you were, leaving again. Making the circle come back around, when I thought I was finally on a straight line. So here I am. Sitting on a brick step, not praying because I quit that, thinking and smoking because I can’t quit either of those.
But it comes to me. It’s time for you to be over. For it to be “there you were.” It’s almost impossible for me to think that it’s that simple. The only complication is that, maybe, we belong for each other, just not now. I’m not supposed to be running in place (even though I’m actually running backwards). It’s not healthy so I’m turning around, because if there’s a wrong way, the other way must be right. I’m cutting the only cord that we have, my own thoughts, and I’m doing something strong and maybe a little painful. I’m saying goodbye to you.
And there you were, in my thoughts, in my life, to remain something I’ll always remember, but never touch again.