Turns out, they never do

I used to write songs all the goddamn time. That stopped before I met you. And so now I have my love life laid out before me in eras of boys who left me or mistreated me, boys who never spoke to me, boys who I managed to outgrow. I can mark time with this music, with these words. I can see myself growing up right before my own eyes. I can sit here and hold in my hands this evidence that time has healed me.

But it all stopped before I got to you.

You see, by the time you stumbled into me, I’d turned to poetry and prose and left my hobby as a lyricist and musician behind. My guitar was already tucked into a corner to collect dust. My piles of notebooks had already been digitized and archived onto an old flash drive. Songwriting was a thing of my past while you were still just steps into the future.

And none of this would matter if things had played out differently. But they didn’t. Turns out, they never do.

We loved hard and we fell fast and summer was beautiful together. But that was it. You left after September, as I guess I should have expected, and I did still turn to writing as my way of bleeding myself out. Old habits die hard. But I wasn’t writing choruses and bridges; music wasn’t a factor anymore. I was just bringing my words to life all on their own. I didn’t need to come up with a dark, depressed chord progression because there was already more sadness in my words than I could ever harness. So it’s all still there… I still have this record of my wretched, broken heartbeat. But it’s different than the rest, and for all the wrong reasons, that bothers me.

It’s all different and you’re all different and how can I ever get over you if I can’t convince myself to heal again? You can tell me that I’m just growing up and this is just a more grown-up way of handling things. I don’t fucking buy it. I don’t believe in coincidence. Timing is always deliberate. So if you’d been just another boy for me to trip over, just another scraped palm or knee, I’d have your songs to prove it. And I’ve have this neat, tidy little timeline to let me know that probably come about March, I’d feel okay again. Patterns don’t lie, after all.

But there’s no pattern to this. This is all new and raw and terrifying. Just like how I’m open and broken and gutted. No timeline, no comparison, no knowing that things will eventually cycle back to normal. You can hope with everything you have that someday you’ll wake up and things will just magically fall into place. Turns out, they never do.

I used to write songs all the goddamn time. That stopped before I met you.


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