I write because he didn’t want my love.
And I am left with all that he refused- the residual affection, the debris of us in the wake of his hasty departure.
And I don’t quite know what to do with it.
Unlike a mug or an IKEA photo frame, I can’t repackage it and give it to an unsuspecting friend on their birthday. It’s not biodegradable, I can’t throw it out; all three colours of recycling bins are wrong.
Love conquers all but the heart that does not want to love anymore.
So I use it in the only way I know how – strung into sentences, paragraphs and poorly constructed haikus. When his indifference cuts like a knife, I sit in front of my typewriter and bleed my heart onto paper, dying a little with every stroke of the key for the words to come to life.
In the past eight months, I must have written miles and miles of words for him – but he hasn’t read a single one.
But I am still writing because maybe one day, a paragraph, phrase or word would move him; perhaps a strategically placed semicolon would tug at his heartstrings and remind him of what used to be.
And he would change his mind and come back.
But of all pains, the greatest pain,
It is to love, but to love in vain.