October Rose


Please stay.

Please want to be with me.

Please come back.

That is.

Come back.

Truth is I don’t even know if you were ever really with me and

I wanted to txt you and say,

“No. I will keep seeing you regardless. I will lower my expectation of myself even further to keep this hallucination of a relationship real. I will accept whatever demeaning conditions you apply to stay part of your life, however small, however insignificant and meaningless.”

But I didn’t, only because I have the experience to know that ultimately our disused railway track of a relationship would have ended anyway, parallel lines, not destined to cross and meet, not even at the abandoned coal mine. The end of the lines, the parallel lines.

Nothing but an optical illusion.

For you and I,

I am grateful that we never reached that destination. That loud and painful screeching derailment. That particular kind of rail crash, because I kept a semblance of dignity by saying,

“Leave me to get on with my life and find somebody who wants to be in a relationship with me.”

And so I trawl the streets taking photographs of dying roses as symbolism for the love we never had and the relationship neither of us could believe in and I take comfort for the loss I should not even be feeling, as a result of the thoroughly hip non-relationship that just didn’t end. How could it end if it didn’t exist in the first place.

And I miss you and the thought of you and the fraction of a life I had in your arms. I liked it there, in your arms. I was too scared to tell you. Afraid, I would say too much, only to know there were no words I could ever say that would be powerful enough to keep you.

Deep within my soul I know that you mustn’t have felt for me, the way you should feel when in the presence of a woman you love.

There was never any mention of love.

Love.

The final taboo.

As the rose petals wither.

The October rose dies.

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