and then...bye.

I first realised after I'd known him for three weeks. He opened his morning eyes and they were love filled, same as i knew mine were. He didn't have to say anything, because I knew, but he said anyway. He said it, the smallest and biggest of sentences, and then I said it back to him. My life divided right there, into before and after that instant: before I was loved, and after I was loved. Before I loved and after.
That morning, we didn't get up. We stood on my bed and danced.

I first realised after I'd known him for nine months and four days. His being a sulky painter was something I'd always, always found hugely compelling, I would sit for him sometimes and swear I'd never feel more deliciously, erotically ignored. I was all that mattered; but we both knew that in those times, my inside could have been anyone's inside: I, I, didn't mean shit. It was heady. But on that day his strop permeated everything and it wasn't confined to his paint brush and his eyes when he looked at me. It was in his eyes when he looked at everything. I could feel his disappointment in me. I was an inconvenience on that day, and it made my vision suddenly pin-sharp and clear. I realised, I think we both realised. He didn't want all of me, just some of me. Just the bits he could paint.

I remember us, now, as a wonderful, beautiful story. I thought it had ended wrong, but I was wrong. It was meant. I remember him and me, and I think God, thank you. Thank God I have felt that: that someone was perfect, and thank God I hurt so deeply when I realised he wasn't perfect, and neither was I. And when I realised that was ok. Because it means now I can smile, and say, 'It was you I loved, I loved you. Thank you.'

Start as we mean to go on....

Well, I did love. I loved completely. My love was an artist; twinkly eyed and self absorbed, he held me inside him for almost a year. But then, then. I don't know how it happened, but the space I had always occupied inside him wasn't mine anymore. He had taken it back, and I had become the intrusive lodger. I left. He begged. I still left.
It was a fist to the gut, doing that to us. The bruise was black and ugly, and stayed on me for a long time afterward. I was sore for a long time.

We met in a park. I was desperately searching the depths of my gigantic handbag for a light for the cigarette clamped between my lips, he shoved a pink one under my nose. There was a silver ring on his index finger, his nails were dirty. He said, 'better?' I said, 'yes'. He gave me that lighter, I've still got it.
I saw him again the next day - well, I did that thing where you go back to the same place to see if they're there which is very nearly random chance, if not bona fide - and we introduced ourselves. It's Sam. And that was it.

I don't usually do this...

I don't usually do this...I don't. To be honest, I wouldnt have said I was the type. For a start, there is the mortifying thought that someone might actually read this. Then, naturally, there is the question of what I'm going to say. So.
Well, I'm never going to begin until I begin, I feel thats pretty much a fundemental, and a great way to make yourself say things out loud - I am beginning, from now, (actually, I looked at the time and realised it was 23 minutes past the 23rd hour of this day and all i had done was gone to the dentist, so it was from about then), to be honest. I want to try and do it, to cut the bullshit.
Like, I loved someone. That is the first time I've phrased that in the past tense. Feels wierd. Feels shitty. And I know soon I'm going to need to be at that point where I can always phrase it in the past tense. No slip-ups. No, whoops, I might still love you. None of that.
I'm also selfish. I think I hurt him, but I also think that his hurt wasn't as deep as my own, and that pisses me off. Secretly, obviously. God, I havent told anyone. But I don't know who you are, if you are anyone, so you can know.
And there you have it, you see? I am a liar. My version of honesty involves anonymous truth telling to strangers that may not exist. None of this is even real. But I am here, telling it, so does it matter?