This relationship isn’t working out for him.
Damn, that sucks. He wafts away from me in the night, splayed lonely across my bed as I watch from my perch and reach out and want. I tried to give him the world, and instead we’re back at square one, which is distant and filthy and uncomfortable and full of broken glass.
I wonder what I could have done differently. Nothing. I take a peek inside my heart and am not surprised to realize that there is nothing left inside me that I could possibly give to him. I gave him everything. All the love in my heart. It wasn’t enough. And I knew it. I knew it wouldn’t be enough love for him, but I gave it to him anyways because, fuck, I had to at least try, right?
Will anything ever work out for him? I don’t think I’ll get to know the answer to that. He’s onto the next one by now, which is a definition of insanity. The next one will be just like me, some haphazard woman dazzled by dick and good looks, tripping and falling her way into would-be sainthood. If only I could have saved him. I am not the one. I look nothing like Jesus’s son, nor do I want to. I just have to accept it now: I am not the child of salvation that I had hoped I was. I am merely another person, here now, gone tomorrow, irrelevant in the echelons of time, but smiling nonetheless.
I can’t take him with me. But if I could, I would carry him across the mountains of time and through the desert of our despair, to some heretofore unseen paradise, a place where my love could be enough for him, and then we would be happy.