One day we were counting
the ghosts of our mistakes
and you randomly brought up,
"Ernest Hemingway saved his manuscripts
by throwing them out the upstairs window
while his studio was burning."
I compared you to Hemingway
that a man can love words
more than an actual person,
more than his own life at stake.
To which I responded,
as I hope it marred your mind,
“I liked the idea of loving you.
I wanted some sort of filler
to compensate for the feelings I got.”
Your fixation was intensely unnerving,
like you were unwrapping every vein that rippled in my body.
I carried on, watching the embers of fault lick you profusely.
“For some reason, I use people until there’s nothing left to use.
Romantically, I used you to cover what I wanted-
Cast you in daydreams where it is like this right now,
in a coffee shop underneath the streetlights.
“It was all the idea of it.
As much as I wanted to make up our relationship,
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to really be with you.
To be close to you, your hand in mine,
to watch your favorite movies under a warm blanket, to jump
in the car with you to chase a sunset.
To have you text me at two in the morning
and tell me I’m beautiful.”
You began to protest,
but I wouldn’t listen.
There is something satisfying
in expressing true happiness
rather than dwelling on it in your mind.
I knew you weren’t giving me that.
“So I don’t think I was ever in love with you.
Just the thought of you.”
