Heartache

Heartache

Ours is not a love story, it is a story about honesty, and the lack thereof. Honesty is a difficult thing. It is impossible to relay everything, and even with the best intentions some things are always held back. Lady doesn’t like it when I write about her, she says I lie. Of course I can only paint the picture as I see it. Ok that’s a lie, I paint the picture so that it looks good on the page. What more can I do?

I’ve been in a deep melancholy since Lady went away. Three times now she’s left my life for good. Three times my heart has been broken, and I told as much. Her response was that my heart wasn’t really broken the first time. I didn’t know what to say to that. 

I am quite skilled at hiding my feelings, both physical and emotional. Apparently I have trouble showing them, and I when I do perhaps I show too much. I can be unpleasant, callous and mean spirited. I know how to cause hurt, and when I feel hurt I’m able to assume a facade of perfect calm. Another lie, I’m not always able to stay calm.

Lady on the other hand wears her heart on her sleeve. It’s one of the things I love about her. It’s a big part of why our adventures always seem so grand. She absorbs every moment, her heart resonates with the beauty around her. Her heart also resonates when surrounded by pain and sadness. There are times I feel I’m an affliction, a shadow corrupting her gentle spirit. 

Maybe that’s why I let her go, why I wasn’t there to say goodbye. She called me the day she left. I had promised to drive her to the airport, but I wasn’t at home, I couldn’t bear to face her. “Where are you?” she asked. I can picture the tears on her face. In that moment I felt very cold, and it had nothing to do with the fact that it was below freezing where I was. 

As always she was very direct with her feelings, every word a barb in my chest. I had done this, everything was my fault, this much at least is no lie. When I invited Lady to come visit near the end of January I desperately hoped that we had moved past our issues. When she agreed to stay until the new year I was over the moon. But the old problems were still right there with us, I couldn’t make things better, I couldn’t be what she needed.

As she poured out her grief a distant part of me knew that if I flew to her as fast as the winds would carry me then maybe things could be different. If she’d asked me to I probably would have. Another lie. We were both too hurt by that point. She may have asked but I didn’t hear, I may have heard but I didn’t want to. I stood and listened, unmoving, unmoved. It was the end, just like before. 

It’s all about the lies we tell, to ourselves and to each other. Words can never move from one heart to another unmarred. The things I say are not what she hears, I listen but I do not understand. We love each other, but cannot seem to trust in that love. If she were to knock on my door right now I would embrace her and invite her in without hesitation, knowing yet again that it can only end in heartbreak. I’m just that kind of asshole. 

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