He’d only been gone for a few days once the nostalgia crept in and began to rape and murder me alive. I didn’t even know what I was nostalgic for, another pet project maybe. A muse that was more committed to me and the completion of my story than himself or his money. But I’d never found such a person, not here anyway. The creative surges were more agonizing than the unrelenting lovesickness. Did I really know him well enough to truly miss him? Or did I just have some kind of compulsion to write about every smidge of emotion he evoked? Where we would have gone or lived together were questions I didn’t want to contemplate. Leaving those question unasked and unanswered made way more sense. The detachment made sense, after he was gone anyway.
Gravitating to him had been an involuntary reflex, much like dreaming. One minute you're ebbed in blackness and the next, a warm face is shining a light in your soul. Opening the door to his light was instinctual somehow. I never let anyone come through that door, hell I rarely tell anyone where I live, let alone encourage them to stay. He roamed here and here I let him make a home next to me for a time. I felt more at home when he was here than I ever had in this damn house alone. Yet, in spite of the romantic wholeness, I wasn’t worried about letting him go. Even if he went for good, he could never take the wholeness with him. So the letting go part came all too easy, it was familiar turf. It was letting him stay and become a touchstone in my life that made me feel ill. Ill and longing for my unpardonable aloof and distant nature. Apart from a nice pair of boobs and free room and board, I had nothing of relevance to offer him. We weren’t necessarily at different places in our lives, but just different enough to make me apprehensive, to exercise passive caution. Meeting him closer to his place on the path would have involved recycling some old beat up lessons that I had no desire to drag out of that plastic blue bin again.
He left on a Monday. The recycling truck came by about an hour later and hauled the rest away. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.