You know that text that your girlfriend wrestles you to the ground over and doesn’t let you send to the guy who you wrote it to? This is in most case-scenarios because, one, it is probably about 30 pages long, two, you have likely downed a few hard-seltzers while writing it, and three, you may have referred to your heart as something really unsexy like a dog. That’s right. I compared my heart to a dog.
He, on the other hand, is probably not thinking about you at all, and likely would not be enticed by the emotional equivalent of a lap dog.
Your memories are now everywhere in my house. I live with them every day, these ghosts.
I open my front door and see you standing there, grinning, wearing that brown leather jacket and smelling like Tom Ford Tobacco Vanilla cologne. I sit down to eat and see you sitting across from me, a youthful sparkle in your eyes when you laugh. I curl up on my couch and remember being enveloped by your tanned, muscled arms there – those ridiculous clown shoes of yours resting on the floor next to my scuffed moto boots.
Perhaps I was chasing the fantasy that you did love me because of the way I sometimes felt it from you.. in a fleeting glance, or in the lingering of your fingers on mine…the possibility of love between us like a prism that only makes a rainbow on the wall when the sun hits it just right.
You lit up my heart, Alex. And as I got to know you, this light grew and grew inside of me. It burns still, pure and strong. It glows with the force of a thousand watts for you.
(Fast forward 20 pages)
It doesn’t matter now. Apparently hearts heal. That’s the word on the street.
But if you had wanted to love me, Alex, you could have trusted me. Because my heart is like a dog, loyal, innocent, and armor-less.