Sunday, 2 August 2015

The River

"Bruce Springsteen?" he says disinterestedly. "Isn't that the whiny guy with the nasally voice?" and then, when I remain quiet: "Oh, that hit a nerve, right? Sorry."

It's just another nail in the coffin, I want to tell him; for how can I explain, now when communication between us is kept shallow and dull, that it's him this song speaks of, for me? I loved him so much. I adored him so much.

Now all them things that seemed so important 
Well mister they vanished right into the air 
Now I just act like I don't remember 
Mary acts like she don't care

It's all gone; the one on one campaign, the roleplaying, the endless talks into the night, drinking in the well, basking in his intellect, feeling loved and cared for; feeling safe. And losing it doesn't hurt as much as I'd expected it to - perhaps training worked, perhaps I'm too old for the kind of abuse he inflicts, 'cause he might be infinitely more intelligent than me, but he can't handle someone liking him in such an open, happy manner; or the boundless intimacy that's the basis for any real friendship in my book; he's too young, or too European, to understand there's no bigger meaning for things; that abuse will get you nowhere, no matter how bright your mind is.

Yes, Petruchio, it hit a nerve; but I won't tell you it did. The times I believed that being frank with you would do good are now capsulated with the good memories and the person who treated me as if I was valuable and loved; and I don't think I want to put energy into trying to fix what you don't feel comfortable in. But in my mind I go back to The River and into it I dive alone, and the memories, though tinged with bitterness, are somehow sweet. 

It's okay; I can love what you were to me without you being a part of it.

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