Idioteque.

I can’t listen to Radiohead anymore without being 21 again and having my heart ripped out at the hand of the person who was home to me.

But honestly, it would be nice to ugly cry. It takes something truly earth shattering to bring on the water works thanks to my SSNRI. I can feel the seasonal sadness creeping up with a slow grip on my throat.

I want hot eager hands on my waist, the biggest fluffiest coziest bed to fall into and get lost in, a horizon view with sand between my toes, a second glass of wine and an ugly face swelling cry. Raw, cathartic and soul baring sob fest.

My soul is numb. It’s indifferent. It’s not happy, but it’s not sad either. I feel like I’m dancing a choreographed little ditty all day, every day is the same.

I want to sneak off and text him. I want to bare my soul in the shadows of this dance and hear his voice from hundreds of miles away. I promised I wouldn’t. That promise is breaking me. I want to throw a fit. I want to yell into the sky how unfair this is. He walked away, broke his promise. He came back and made right while I was in the depths of a path I chose to take without him. 15 years later I found him, we reconnected, the chemistry and love was there. It. Was. There. And the distance tore him apart and tortured him while I saw silver linings and my heart filled with a tiny mustard seed of hope. And then… he begged that we stop. I want to respect that, logical brain wants to respect that. 17 year old me buried deep down is appalled we didn’t catch the first flight out of this town for some magical movie moment.

My heart keeps taking me back to great falls. His training tee clutched tight to my chest. Alligator tears burned my cheeks and I couldn’t bare to turn away from him because the minute I did I knew I was headed back to a life that didn’t even seem significant anymore. 

For over 15 years I’ve just wanted to come home. Getting to talk to him was like being handed the keys and finding myself standing outside the door.