One Of These Will Be The Last One

We didn't even read one line from our book of poetry, did we?

We did our ‘A’ and ‘B’ date but never did make it to ‘C’, did we?

We couldn’t go two weeks without fighting, could we?

We always kept the door cracked for our past to come back, didn't we? . . .

We were ready to run as soon as our love stopped being fun, weren't we?

You only sent two math problems to me and we never did get the apologies we needed, did we?

We aren’t reading the same books now, are we?

I wish I could share today's sunrise with you. And I wish I could have you listen to the songs I've been listening to. But you left me again.

You never did back a pie for me, did you?

You never did love me, did you? I was just a temporary partner to you, wasn't I?

I always was a secret you were keeping from someone else, wasn't I? I was a lie you tried to hide—a secret you were ashamed of. I was the man who helped ruin a marriage . . . wasn’t I?

I was a bandaid, there to temporarily stop the bleeding. I was your distraction—helping you avoid the healing, hurting and responsibility of your marriage failing . . . wasn’t I? I was always the other guy . . . wasn’t I?

We never did get to go to another show together, did we?

We never could forgive each other, could we?

This should be easy to let go of, so why isn't it? If it’s so poisonous, leaving it behind should feel good. So why doesn’t it?

You never got to try my cookies . . .

We didn't talk on the phone before ending this, did we? We handled it like kids, didn't we?

I couldn't honestly say sorry for a while and I didn't want to force you to have a conversation you didn't want to have, so here we are.

You never could let me go, could you?

I need to go, though.

I really do.

I promised myself that the one before this would be the very last thing I ever write about you . . . but that’s not true, is it? One of these will be the last one.

I hate that I love you. When will it end? Or, when will it actually begin? When will it end? And . . . when will it begin?

I hate that our house had the door cracked for our ex’s to come back. That’s a fake safe space—a fake home. I was in this relationship alone, wasn’t I? . . .

I tried . . . I really tried this time.

CH 11/12/26