‘I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.’

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning, but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

This is what I imagine went through the head of The Man Who Used My Heart As A Pinata

 

 

 

How, a year ago, I felt about the Man Who Used My Heart As A Pinata.

 

 

 

And today ... maybe like this.

 

 

And I have officially made it through the Monday and Tuesday I knew would be the hardest to walk through. I was subdued, yes, but I just did what the Man Who Used My Heart As A Pinata advised me to do once, many many moons ago.

 

I kept a feeling of expectation, and I kept waiting, and expecting, and the day would end and I could see my child and start it all over again.

 

It’s so strange — it almost feels like an out of body experience. Making it a year, a full year. I am still alive. Different. But alive.

 

I did let myself wonder if these days were even a blip on his radar, if he even noticed or had a split second where he remembered that at one point he thought he loved me. I figured not, but then I realized he might, because while to me it is a breaking point, to him it is probably a point of reconcilation.

 

And then I thought, “I hope he’s happy. I hope he’s reconciled and living well and feeling joy in his life.”

 

And then I thought, “Self, no one else can hear your thoughts, you’re full of shit.” So then I thought, “Well, I hope he at least shits his pants today.”

 

No one’s perfect.