With him, I was the wild one. Always too hard and too ambitious, full of goals and checklists and always running up a tab of love that I couldn’t quite repay. Frantic taking from him to stay afloat when I could barely stand for myself. He was good to me then. He was stable when I needed to tether myself to something that wouldn’t move. I did love his laugh. The way he loved me on fire everywhere filling every vein every breath each daydream night dream but not my dreams was when I realized love like that was possible, and that trying to repay his love like that was like trying to scrape water out of a dry sponge: a vessel so capable to pass on the volume, yet so entirely, completely missing the point. He was there every time to try to put back the pieces of me, but I never wanted to need someone to glue me back together.
I think I always knew.
I think I always knew he gave too much of himself to someone who would ultimately not be able to bear that weight. Dead weight. For both of us. It’s strange, to look on someone with the detached twinge of a failed yesterday that can so often be misinterpreted as regret or tenderness. I look at him now and he is a stranger. His hair is longer and I think his list of dreams is too. When he was free of me, he finally had room for him. That man is a stranger. And I think he’s better for it.