Awful isn’t it? Long and empty days that are full of nothing. The mental calendar which each day causes the caustic reminder of what we did with you last month and this time last year. The sweet memories of that glorious golden period when everything was bathed in golden light, coated in sugar and tasted of honey.
Was it only a month ago that we told you that despite everything that had happened that we still loved you? You fought back the tears as those wonderful words spilled from our lips, just as they had done on so many ecstatically happy occasions in the past. Yes, we might have uttered them after another barnstorming battle between you and I, but there, in that instant, the words were said our eyes shone and in an instant we transported you back to those heady and halcyon days of when we first got together.
A year ago the memories come thick and fast, each one a surge of excitement which is then immediately ripped away from you as you realise it is but a memory. The remembrance of our lips locked together as we stood that cold December evening in the town square, the cobblestones frosting and the sounds of other people dim in the background as the fairy tale began.
My, what a wonderful time it was. The twin combination of falling in love and the run-up to Christmas. It was magical. New friends that we introduced you to, exciting times laughing and running through the streets hand in hand to stop at an alleyway and kiss. Oh how we kissed.
The polite introductions to family and sneaking from one bedroom to another whilst staying there over the Christmas period, entwining in one another’s arms and moving together as you drowned in our eyes and the promise you saw there.
The first gift you ever received from us. You have it still, sat on the nightstand by your bed, a hurtful reminder of better times. You still kiss the head of the stuffed toy every night as the memories surge.
You can remember each and every day from the beginning of the whirlwind romance. Where we met during work hours, the first time you stayed at our house, the first time we had dinner at yours. New horizons, landmark events from the minor to the major but all of importance as you systematically and subconsciously logged these occurrences so that you have been able to call on them now.
Now as you sit enshrined in emptiness, our words be they loving or harsh but an echo and our ghost drifting about these rooms which once sounded to our laughter, our passion and our arguments.
It has all gone. The joy and the jealousy have dissipated when we walked away from you and then there was nothing. Silence. Unimpeachable silence.
You cannot stand this nothingness. Everything has become grey. You find no satisfaction in anything. Well-meaning friends have sought to lift you from this despair but nothing has worked. The suggested trips to the cinema, to the lake, to the shopping mall, to dinner at their houses; they have all been rejected because nothing feels the same. There is nothing now. No hatred, no love, no passion, no laughter. Overnight somebody has come and stolen the colour from the world and left with just an overwhelming grey. It was hellish at the time but you would still have the rows, the fights and the accusations because at least then you could feel something. You felt that we still cared because after all why else would we erupt in a temper, slam the doors and throw things around if we did not feel something for you? Surely it was precisely because we cared so much about you that we did all of those things.
Yes it hurt. But the hurt felt so good.
Whether it was the spontaneous lovemaking, the unpredictable gift, the bewildering argument out of nothing or the litany of lies which had you tearing your hair out, at least it was something. Life was never dull. Never.
You felt alive and on a scale that you had not known before. Everything was brighter, bolder and more magnificent. Each day was full of promise and excitement. Tears of joy or tears of despair, it did not matter because we made you feel alive and beyond anything you had previously experienced. The world became a dazzling, vibrant and exciting place. Sometimes you soared, sometimes you plummeted but it was all better than this, better than this barren wilderness.
The songs you once enjoyed listening to are an offence to your ears so you would rather not listen. Clothing appears drab and uninteresting so you leave them in the wardrobe and draws and pull on your 21st century equivalent of sackcloth and continue to mourn the loss of us and our electricity.
Food is tasteless, like ash in your mouth, the conversation of friends a stale monotone which you tune out as you reach into your memory and try to rekindle the blazing rows that you had with us before we kissed. It was hammer and tongs in the living room and then hands and tongues in the bedroom. Passion in war. Passion in love.
You crave a return to those times in order to feel something, anything. Anything which will be better than being numb, listless and disconnected. Nothing is all there is now and nothing is not good enough. You want to feel, you want that addictive, sensuous, mesmerising rollercoaster of an existence again with us. You do not care that we would break your heart and leave you sobbing, the times when we returned with love shining in our eyes and apologies tumbling from our lips caused the relief to course through you like so much lightning and it felt marvellous.
This is dull.
This is boring.
This is nothing.
You know we hurt you but at least you could still feel something. The pain at our infidelity, the annoyance at our Friday night flirtations, your shock at the stinging slap to your left cheek, but there was so much which was wonderful and amazing. Our knowledge of music, the concerts we took you to, the times we danced all night together, the experiences, the events and the ecstasy. Pain or pleasure. Hurt and Hate. Love and longing. You had it all and you want it again.
You have heard the warnings given by your friends to stay away from our toxic tongue. Your family have cautioned against embracing those lying lips ever again. Colleagues have confided in their concerns. The experts have told you how we will not change, that we will keep repeating our abusive machinations against you, up and down, in and out, push and pull. You have heard it all, again and again and again, but it is bland, boring and banal.
You know the risks. You know the hurt. You know the danger.
But you want to escape this non-existence.
Anything will be better than this godforsaken purgatory.
Yes, your personal god has forsaken you and left you in ashes and dirt.
You want us back.
You want the fire, the spice, the passion. Good or bad, you want it back because it is so much better than this emptiness.
You want it all again.
You want us back.
It hurts, but hurt is something to feel and it hurt so damn good.
You need it again.
You need us again.
One more time.