I loved his scar. When I realized I was trying to find it on my next boyfriend, I cried.
I don’t write any more.
I think he was my muse. I know I won’t do this any justice, the feelings I want to explain and my side of the story, but instead of threading words into something of worth, like a jeweller creating a necklace, I feel as if all I can do is throw my words at this blank page like a preschooler with paint, and hope that something sticks.
I wish I knew the moment I gave up. I wish I could pin point the exact second that I decided to cave in, throw away my naive hope and plans, and completely give up on us.
“What about all the adventures me promised to have?” was all he whispered, and I knew we would never be the same.
It had never occurred to me that our lives, which had been so closely interwoven, could unravel with such speed. If I’d known, maybe I’d have kept tighter hold them. And not let unseen tides pull us apart.
So here I am, back to being single and alone. Although I guess when I really think about it, I have been alone for months now. Maybe that’s why you can’t really see my heartbreak in my posture or in the iris of my eyes. If you ask me about it, I’ll just explain the facts and give a simple smile and shrug.
I know it was the right thing to do. And I am fine on most occasions.
But when I step out onto my veranda and smell the autumn air I see us.
I see our hands together.
I see him in the driver’s seat with the sunroof open.
I see him before he left and before I became this person.
I see him falling asleep next to me.
I see his heart, untouched and unbroken.
I see him smiling at me.
I see me happy.
I guess the bottom line is that love can’t really conquer all. After all, it’s just an emotion.
And so I cry in the shower.
I cry driving home from work.
I cry when I run as far as my lungs can take me,
When I sit on the jetty, where I can see for miles, miles, miles.
i have a beautiful friend, and her love lives far away due to the navy. every day i honestly think she is the strongest person i know. she was made to love, made to savour the space between fingertips and collect memories on a necklace she wears when it rains. somebody so intertwined with their love, who lets it take them over completely, can not live without their other half. for this reason i think she is strong. she lives constantly with the feeling of tearing at the seams, of tearing from your lover and frantically trying to sow yourselves back together.
So much time is spent with people superficially. You remember all the fun you had but nothing specific. You remember the freedom, the wind blowing through your hair with the windows down. You remember the late night conversations, the heavier the eyelids, the sincerer the words. You remember his smell. You remember fooling around in the backseat. You remember your smile being spread like butter when you saw him. You remember feeling safe.
I am not a seamless person. I am not a Friday night or Sunday morning. I am a Tuesday at 2am, when it starts to rain and you remember you left your window open. You have get up to close it, then see the still night in all its glory. I am a bittersweet nuisance.
So now I’m left wanting something that never really was, like when you fall in love in your dreams and the feeling stays with you the day after.
I’ll never forget anything about him.
“What a shit night,” Demetri sighed for almost the 10th time.
“Why are you so upset?” I asked, watching the cab meter tick over with every kilometre of bitumen we covered.
“No one even showed up. No one cares that it’s my birthday.”
When we got to his house he paid for the cab and got out and walked ahead of me up his long driveway.
I slowed, walking behind him in the moonlight. It was a silent in his neighbourhood, the only sound was my heels clicking on the concrete like the second hand on a clock.
Once again I felt invisible.
“If no one even showed up, then what the hell am I?” I whispered into the cold night air.
He didn’t hear me.
After climbing into bed, I made him talk to me about anything and everything, knowing from experience that most men are like a beaver’s dam. Pull out a few logs and before you know it the deep topics start to flood through. After a while he stopped giving me short answers and started laughing at my jokes. He started talking about his friends that night, and how disappointed he was. He turned over to face me and I watched his eyes become animated in the slither of moonlight that snuck in through his blinds as he began to talk and talk and talk. We talked of past loves and favourite memories. Of heartbreaks and future hopes. Of everything sexual we could think of. Of our friendship. Conversations are best at 4am. The heavier the eyelids, the sincerer the words. Those are the talks you’ll remember, the details that you’ll forget. It’s okay not to know the answer and silence is not awkward. It’s shared, so share it more often than not. (Jeff Stuckel)
“Thanks Zie,” He said after a large break in the conversation.
“For what?” I murmured, my face half buried into the pillow.
“You know. Being here. Being such a great friend. Making me talk and cheering me up.”
“It’s okay. Goodnight Demetri,” I yawned, the room progressively growing lighter with the 5.00am sun seeping through the blinds.
“Goodnight,” He rolled over. ”You have ruined girls for me, I hope you know that.”
The other day I found a T-shirt belonging to my boyfriend in my bedroom. What did I do with it? I didn’t fling it across the room in frustration, I didn’t break down crying thinking of how much I miss you. I didn’t even stash it in my ‘boyfriend’s-clothing-become-PJ’s’ drawer.
I picked it up and spelt it.
Then I took a moment to re-remember him… Funny how the scent of a daggy old grey Billabong tee could make me smile and make me cry in one breath. I guess it’s because when a person walks out of a room or out of our life, they leave behind certain songs, sights and particular scents we associate with them. These we associate with them can make us sentimental for the times we shared, their smile and the familiarity that once was.
Even young girls enjoy wearing perfume. It may be because they want to feel grown up, or maybe because they like the smell. I remember when I was eight; in the local pharmacy there was a fragrance that I thought smelt like lemonade. And suddenly I had a desire to smell like fizzy drink so I saved up and bought it.
What I’ve learnt and loved over the years about perfume is that it changes and grows with you as a person. It evolves as you do. As we become bolder and older, we leave behind the shy subtleties of vanilla to embrace sparkling florals, and rich heady scents.
Our fragrance can reflect our mood, or lift it. I never knew words like ‘Lovely’, ‘Beautiful’ or ‘Passion’ could come from a bottle, but when we’re broken-hearted, bloated or stressed, the mist from a small glass box can act like a magic potion to help us feel just a little bit beautiful again.
Everybody has ‘a smell’. From the fun and affordable to the iconic; live, love, laugh, learn and make memories to immortalise with your favourite scent. Perfume is sometimes a mask, which we paint our feelings on everyday.
A while ago, my boyfriend he sent me a text which simply said, “I miss your smell”. It gave me butterflies, and it made me realise something…the perfume I put on every morning had actually become part of my identity. I now had a ‘smell’ and somebody out there knew it was mine. And that is why girls wear perfume, every single day.
The idea of working full time is scaring me.
I feel so unprepared, so insignificant. Every time I am in a working environment I feel so incredibly stupid. Always wrong. Always in the way. So awkward and young.
Low self confidence and doubt is swallowing me whenever I step into a role.
We were sitting in his car with alcohol swirling in our blood stream; not enough to cause clouded vision, but enough to make it illegal to drive.
Stationary and stuck, in the light of the street lamp I watched his face twist and distort from the pain. He scratched again at the dinner-plate sized welt across his back and groaned.
“Don’t scratch bub, it’ll only make it worse,” I said quietly.
“I can’t.” He whispered.
He never whispered.
We were waiting for his parents to pick us up from a friend’s house after a night out, to take him to the hospital. We were supposed to stay over, until he developed a huge rash which raced across his back and onto his chest, then crept up his neck like a wildfire.
He moaned again and dropped his head into his hands. The little green LCD clock flashed 2.00am and we both sighed with exhaustion. He choked out a sob and I felt my heart crack a little.
“Here bub, lay down,” I said steering his head to my lap.
“I can’t - it hurts - I just -” He struggled to finish, scratching madly and looking completely helpless and vulnerable in my lap.
I rested my cold hands on his welted back, lightly running my hands up and down his skin. The chill calmed him immediately as he stopped squirming in his seat. I started humming a tune of a song long forgotten as I ran the tips of my fingers softly over his chest, down his back, over the mountains and crevasses formed by the swelling.
There in the dim light, as he fell asleep to my gentle touch and song, I knew I loved him. It wasn’t as powerful as before, as overwhelming or craving, but it was there. I knew some part of me will always love him.
I wish I captured that moment better. Memorised the smell of his skin, and the colour of the stars, the feeling that washed over me when he fell asleep on my lap. I should have hoarded it like the grains of sand I keep in my shoes to remind me that it was once summer.
Later, he would say that he loved that I was spontaneous, that he loved the way I was always up for an adventure. Later, I would say that I loved that he seemed to go through life with such ease, never really worrying about anything. He would say that he loved that I came into his room with nothing but confidence and ease the first time we kissed. I would say that I loved that he had so many friends - everyone seemed to like him. He would say that he loved the way I smiled, my tiny nose, my big eyes, and I would say that I love the way he sung to me in the car, the way he held me so forcefully when we slept, the way his chest felt against my cheek.Later, we would say that we had loved each other too much for it to last.