I can predict your patterns with such ease. Every few months you message me. “Hey.” “hey what’s up,” I respond. And that’s when you know. That’s when you know not a thing has changed since the last time we talked. There is such an emptiness to my words that even the words themselves are filled with resistance. Maybe I understand your patterns because you understand mine. There is a part of us that will always be with each other, a part of me that no one else will know besides you. You know all too well. “You always do that, shut off.” And then I never turned back on.
We both know about the Christmas in which I strung a list of excuses in order to avoid you. Sometimes it’s easier on the heart that way. “I bought you a present I want to give you.” But I didn’t want to give you any of me, not even my time. Even Christmas spirit couldn’t draw me out of the resent.
You were once a pressed leaf tucked in the spine of one of my favorite novels. But like all patterns of nature, it withered.
I wish I could say that I miss you, that I care, that there is a tinge in my heart when we don’t speak. I wish I could say that this is just the waiting period between the last time we connected and the next time we’ll reconcile. Three years ago this may have been the case, maybe even two. I might have spent my nights thinking about how I’d say sorry, only to further emotionally distance myself from you, because I know the trouble between us always starts with one of us apologizing. There are some lessons we learn too much that we never learn them at all.