Tonight slammed home all the ways that I have yet to drag myself beyond the corpse of our relationship. As the fiddle danced atop the box drum, I missed the sight of you whirling through the sawdust, feet bare and face shining red with exuberance. I even made the ultimate gaffe - I mentioned you in passing. And when they slowed the music, I felt your absence like a two-by-four to my midsection. I blinked away tears and left the conversation, because I knew I would not be able to succeed in the ruse of being "fine," and I had no desire to explain the situation to my company - I'm still trying to explain it to myself.
Silence, however, is not an option. I cannot be as a young girl and slam my hands over my lips, saying no evil even as it claws at my palms, drawing blood that tastes of burning copper on my tongue. I cannot hold my peace on this when I can no longer hold back my tears. (Although bravo to me for managing this long.)
I hate the way we ended, and I hate the way that it was necessary for us to end. You were by far the best I ever had, and are now the measuring stick that no one can match, stand on tiptoe though they may.
I have to move on, in a real way this time. Because I'd like to be able to see you whirling through the sawdust, feet bare and enabling you to fly. More, I'd like to be able to smile at the sight, knowing that we are both fine - no absence, no ruse, and no conspicuous corpse taking up room.
