Listening to Leona Lewis should be self-explanatory.
Every time I see the ring that she gave me I remember how I swore that “this time, this time, I’ll definitely throw it away…” but somehow it finds its way back on my mantle. Metal against metal. Numbers aligned to mark a date that once marked an anticipation of hope and celebration. I put it on and remember how we first met. I try to recall my steps. How somehow along the way, I lost myself in the significance of her by making myself less significant. How she left me within an hour to leave me to the realization that I no longer know who I am without her. One reason I don’t cook and sleep in my bed anymore. But I loved her.
I put the 4 black metal rings on saying “I just want to see if it still fits” and quickly remove it, remembering how I only say that because what I really mean to say is that I miss her and wish she would come back, only unchanged. I know that if she turned up on my doorstep, I wouldn’t know her anyway. She’s no longer the person I used to love. The person who at one point, had all of me without question or request. How she has treated me after the break up has made a bigger impact on me as compared to how she once was when we were together. I am sick of the mind games, the meaningless affection, the hot and cold, the beck and call. It is far more tiring wanting to be loved by that one person and a whole lot easier to allow everyone else to love me in return.
Time is playful on our expectations, makes us weaker, makes us forfeit our tomorrows by concealing itself as an unbroken promise. But time also heals, builds and comforts. It just depends on how you chose to deal with the pain. I don’t make altars for anyone, but I don’t know why it’s so hard to just throw it away. Maybe because in some form of sadistic irony, she decided to replace the one I lost with a new one on the day she decided to end our relationship. Did she not realise it wasn’t simply a ring but a symbol of our love and commitment to each other? Maybe I’ll just give it to someone else and tell them all about the cliches of the obsession with love and disillusion with the idea of it…
… cause by then, it’ll finally be evident to me that it was all just a joke.