Day 59

I have just read about your dubious hero, Shackleton, and how he brought cocaine tablets with him on his voyage to Antarctica. And you judge me, a former coke/crack-head? You know you would have killed me long before the cocaine ever would? That thought leaves me gobsmacked. Really does.

Day 58

I’ve got it. While watching The Sopranos it came to me. Tony Soprano, he reminds me of you. Only he seems a little more mentally/emotionally stable than you. A thug, that’s what you are.

Day 57

I just finished watching that movie, Goodfellas. I’ve seen it so many times before, but can never resist another chance to see it again. At the end of the movie, Henry Hill, the narrator, says that he sort of misses the old life (i.e. the drug and crime life). That got me to thinking … that’s what made it so hard for me to let go of you, the life I thought we had together. What a lie. What a big lie you turned out to be.

Day 55

It’s official. You’re certifiable. Why, then, do I continue making excuses for you?

Day 53

I could say that, I don’t miss you, not one bit. Alas, that’s such a lie.

Day 52

I had a dream about you last nite. In it, I telephoned you, hoping to get your voice mail. Instead, you answered. I felt somewhat dumbstruck. Still, I get butterflies. Also, the taste of fear in my mouth. How can it be?

Day 50

Today my heart spent little time focussing on you, and what went so terribly wrong. I expended little thought in wondering, did you enter the world as a monster? If not, then when, what precise moment, did you make that transformation? Perhaps I can say, after all is said and done, that I knew a modern-day Jekyll-Hyde? Shall I feel sorrow for your loss ~ yourself?

Day 49

I try not to think about you, about it, because, what is, is. Still, I find myself, at times, struggling to loosen my grip on the fantastical image of you my mind had conjured up. Why do I find it so difficult to let go of the myth into which I made you? How could you possibly ever live up to such a myth? How could anybody?

Day 48

I want to tell you I don’t miss you, not one bit. That’s a lie, though. Hope used to float for me, now it seems futile, to hope for you to deliver what you promised. I feel sorry for you, and the misery of desolation which must clench your daily existence. Still, that does not seem like enough to fill that hole in my heart which takes your shape. Will that part of my heart ever grow back?

Day 47

I thought about you on the way to the store. Thought about how you used to make love to me. Explosive. I still get that quivery, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling. That seems just a little deranged. This just goes to show that love has no logic or mind of its own.