This Makes No Sense, Love Makes No Sense

So last night dear reader, I went through what for some weird reason I prefer calling a break up.Could it be because it has been a light year since I was someone’s cinnamon apple or maybe I just like the taste in my mouth of uttering the phrase, ‘Got dumped’?

Look at me psycho-analyzing my own being. Doubting whether I’m emotionally and mentally balanced. Believe me dear reader, the doubt in me, by me, has all the right reasons. This is no digression, merely a different string of thought that eventually leads to the moot point.

So here we go, she wasn’t really my girlfriend, I wasn’t letting her borrow my jacket during cold nights, we never displayed any form of affection in the public (not even holding hands), and even though we had tried and failed miserably, we never had the occasional cute names for each other.

We however bathed in the pool of carnal knowledge more often than some couples do. I would be the moon behind the earth and she would in turn let me revolve around her teeny cave that is guarded by the two pillars that are her thighs.

I would seek shelter in her internal warmth while she showed appreciation  of the company within, by mild mourning and groaning. We had loads of sex! This was the only time both our worlds
 seized existing as separate entities. We were a coin; two but one.

The first time I forced her legs apart like marionette strings in the hands of an amateur puppeteer, and asked, “You gonna write about me?” The second time, with my fingers making bruises on her neck, I asked the same question. So the third time, when she was beaten down like a piano beyond repair, all broken keys and a slowly dwindling melody, She wrote about me.

She wrote, “I beatbox with ghosts. I got a handful of knives in my back from all the times people like you stabbed me when I was just starting to turn around.”

She wrote, “Land of the free, home of the brave, but you’re just the coward who didn’t even bother to ask my name. I gotta heartbeat like a pendulum, it swings so fast you’ll never even know what hit you. You’ll never break my heart. It’ll break you.”

When I apologized over texts a few weeks later then forced another woman the way I forced her, she started slipping the poems under my front door, beneath the wind shield wiper of my car [winks], inside the sleeve of my pillowcase.

I asked her if she would write about me. And so she did.

She wrote about me to anybody who would listen, until her final poem ended up in the hands of the police. Then she pulled all the knives out of her back and severed all the blame she’d aimed at herself for so long. She was not the best writer or a writer at all for this matter, but, her life was a bulk of pages from her emotional experience with me.

Dear reader, perhaps my words make no sense, perhaps I don’t imply to make any. Point is, I played the part, she wrote the play, my bed was the stage and the crowd was but our voices; a two man crowd.

Problem was, she wrote to many plays. I may have been good on stage but I wasn’t the best. I rocked the stage, I rocked the bed, I rocked her world. She called my out my name and so did the bed; this name dear reader, I had lost teeth and broke buckets of sweat for. Pubic hairs died over the name goddamn it! But she had written too many plays and played lead in them. It was her world. It stopped spinning when she closed the page.

Dear reader, I was dumped after my role made no sense in the her next play. She wanted a man who wouldn’t have to pound her senselessly for her to call out his name. A man whose pockets pounded her! She was writing the play ‘The Great Gatsby’ and I was left in her last masterpiece where I played the Pauper.

ME: Is this a break up?

HER: We weren’t an item

Simple as an Eskimo transmitting a nasal infection, precise like a guided missile and bearing more truth than the words of a Buddhist.

HER: But we are still friends though- right?  (few words that would make any icecream flavor taste like penicillin and melt diamond in an instant)

ME: Uuhm, sure I don’t see why not? (Even a blind man has no right to say these words. Either am a chronic compulsive liar or I actually meant these words out of fear of losing her.)

En masse, the stage exists devoid of the playwright and so does the actor. Raise the curtains!