Your Love Is A Cemetery

Photo by Ceyda Çiftci on Unsplash

Black tulips bloom in the garden in my front yard, and everything starts to feel like a cemetery. Small green leaves peek through the frozen ground, trying to bring life to a place too desolate to know it. I have always been more of a winter than a summer girl; I am too cold for the fall but not warm enough to be spring. I bloom in awkward places, just two bony knees and crooked teeth searching for some meaning.

My idea of a good time is pretending that time doesn’t exist at all. I don’t kill time, I hide from it. I can’t injure eternity if I never approach it in the first place. Is it possible to drown if you don’t acknowledge the water, or will it still consume you all the same?

A cup of cold black coffee sits on my counter and reminds me of the day that you left. I can remember the last time you looked at me and the way that your eyes said everything you were too afraid to speak. The last photograph we took collects dust in the corners of my memory, and I wonder how it looks inside your head.

In Chicago, the wind doesn’t blow, it berates you. For falling in love. For trusting. Forever believing that time will stand still if you just ask it nicely enough. We tried, and we failed. We spent more time picking out the perfect avocado in the grocery store than we ever did trying to remember how to love each other.

You were leaving. You were lying. I was scared. But I stayed, and some days, I admit, I regret that. Our love was cautious; we both knew that time would never be on our side, but we chose each other anyway.

My black hoodie (the one you loved so much) lying on your bed and the way you used to stare out your window in the morning light — I’ll never know what you were looking for. I look for you everywhere now. When the green line passes by, I search every car for your face, and when I walk by the coffee shop, I look in the windows and hope that you’ll be there waiting.

But I know.

You are the past. And I can’t keep living there.

With you, it was love. It was perfect. It was nights at the ballet and weekends in Bronzeville away from the world, just us. And the avocado. And the lies. And the bullshit.

I promise I knew.

Everything starts to feel like a cemetery, I think, maybe, this is moving on.

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Freelance Make-Up Artist & Teacher. Wig & Make-Up Designer. Freelance Writer. Coffee, dogs & pop-punk are my life. MFA student at Roosevelt University.

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Becky Curl

Becky Curl

Freelance Make-Up Artist & Teacher. Wig & Make-Up Designer. Freelance Writer. Coffee, dogs & pop-punk are my life. MFA student at Roosevelt University.