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We started in the middle of the page—or, at least, we started in the middle of my page because we are two completely different books. I never really understood that until now, I suppose, because I assumed you were just a character in my story—an utterly breathtaking and awe-inspiring and love-demanding character, but a character nonetheless—and had managed to creep your way into the middle of a page in my book. I had also assumed that you were there to stay for the rest of the story, but we both know how wrong I was now.

I think we also started in the middle of a sentence, what with your creeping into the middle of my page and into my story, though I have no way of knowing if you crept into the middle of my story because I don’t know how it ends, no matter how much I wish I did or how much I thought I did. Perhaps you crept into the middle of my sentence, specifically, while I was talking, but there’s no way of knowing for sure because we can’t go back and read what’s been written, only remembering, even though we want to go back and rewrite it so badly because what’s been written wasn’t what we wanted, to fix the story with its plot holes and plot twists and missing characters and missing points, but we can’t. We just can’t, and I should know because I am the master of just being unable to. I am unable to, just as how I was unable to correctly assume how long our story arc would last. Forever doesn’t mean forever like we want it to, right?

The only thing is, is that it does. Forever does mean forever because I will forever remember you, forever love you, forever miss you. Forever just doesn’t mean forever when we say it, when we insist we can make it work. Forever means forever when we don’t want it to. I will forever wish you would creep back into my story like you did before, but you’ve already ended my chapter in your book, haven’t you? I only wish that I knew how long of a chapter I was, to see how much of an impact I actually made on your story. I want to know, although I was probably only a sentence, maybe only a part of a sentence even, because our beginning and middle and end happened all too quickly even though it lasted forever—forever to me, at the very least.

Now that I think about it, the probability that we started in the middle of my story, in the middle of my page, in the middle of my sentence, is very high because it was always middles for you. You always liked the middle of class, the middle of the restaurant, the middle of the theater, and what felt like the middle of my story, and perhaps that was because you liked the center—of gravity, of excellence, of attention, and—again—of my story. However, the one middle—the one center—that you apparently didn’t like was the middle of our story—of us—because you sped through it like you’d speed through the beginnings of those books you claimed to love and the ends of the books you claimed to also hate. In the end, I’ve realized, you sped through our entire story while I was still stuck in the exposition, trying to fill in the gaps before you crept in. In the end, I realized that it comes all too soon.

Perhaps we’ll meet again. After all, those who have gone ahead tend to return to the ones who have stayed behind in stories, don’t they? It creates conflict and makes room for resolution. However, I know that, almost as much as you loved middles, you hated second beginnings. The past is in the past, as you would always insist, and there’s no good in reviving what is dead, never mind how alive it still feels. Bury it and ignore that small and silent heartbeat because it’s not there, it’s an illusion, it’s dead and gone, and nothing you do will help that. Our story is dead and gone, and nothing we do will help that.

Somehow, I keep—no, continue to break your rule. I don’t want to say “keep” because that implies that I still have it, that I still have you, and I cannot—I refuse to—lie to myself when I know that it is not true. You might say that this little hope of mine—that you’d creep back into the middle of my book, of my page, of my sentence, that another story arc of ours would begin again—is false, not true, dead, gone, but I say that I don’t know that it’s not true for sure—no matter how much I know that it’s not true—and that I’m not lying because I really don’t know. I suppose it’s the same way that I don’t know how I’m going to die although I do know that I will die, but if I don’t know how, then I don’t know if. You’d say my logic is incorrect, flawed, illogical, but I’d return with the fact that you are illogical, that your entire existence is illogical.

Yet I know that despite all of your illogic, I will still hold onto that still, small hope that you’d creep back into my story, onto my page, into my sentence. I've left room for you to do that, and I think you might actually like this second beginning, in a way. I know it's grammatically incorrect to leave it like this—you were always the politically correct one while I was the grammatically correct one—but I've decided to make an exception for you, and you only. You see, it's almost a second beginning, but not quite, because it's not truly a new sentence. Here's to you creeping back into the middle of my story, the middle of my page, the middle of my sentence, and creeping back to stay;

If there is one thing I will forever remember about us,
It will be that we are always
Disagreeing,
Arguing,
And fighting
Over the same things over
And over
And over
And over again.
Perhaps it's because we are always
Repeating,
Reiterating,
And regurgitating the same things over
And over
And over again.
The mistakes that we make are sure to be made again
Without thought,
Without regret,
Without fail.

It's in our nature, I suppose,
To go through the same routines and regimens
Every
Single
Day.
I always show up late
And later
And later
And later
To every single thing we have planned,
With a new excuse every time
For my inexcusable behavior.
You always hound, harry, harangue, and harass me
Constantly like clockwork
Every
Single
Day.
I give you something to find fault in,
And I find fault in you when you point it out.

Perhaps our fights are my fault.
Perhaps I cause our contretemps.
Perhaps I am looking for an exit,
An escape,
From the toxic and poisonous and dangerous and deadly relationship
That we have forced ourselves into,
And my hidden desire has led to my unfaithfulness and ungratefulness to you and for you.
Perhaps it really is all my fault,
And perhaps I should regret that I don't behave better toward you.

However, our disappointments and debacles can't only be blamed on me
Because it takes two to tango.
In a way, you are to blame for causing disagreements
Just as much as I am
By refusing to let go.
You must be looking for a way out as much as I am,
What with your neverending nagging and continuous criticizing
And rambling rants that go on
And on
And on forever
And ever with no end in sight—
That is, until you grow tired of hearing your own voice.

Yet no matter how much of a murderous mess our relationship is,
You cannot deny that we encounter a few good times
Of peace and partnership.
We have those rare late night roof visits,
Discussing the dilemma of the dead and gone dodo bird,
Wondering if it really matters whether the species has gone extinct
Or if we are better off without those bumbling birds
Robbing us of quite precious yet ordinary necessities
Such as air or food or living space on this broken planet.
Though I am unable to name more of these moments
Because they are few and far between,
They undeniably exist, whether in veritable memories or visionary minds.
They do not cease to exist just because our memories of them do.
The problem lies in our marred memory,
But what does it matter that the moments existed at one point
If the memories of them will blur into oblivion?
If we forget them in our fury and fighting,
Won't they be pointless and points lost?

The fact of the matter is that
We can't match a motive to our downward spiral
No matter how hard we try.
The only explanation within reason is that
We are both too caught up in our own confining circles of customs
To realize that all we're doing is tearing each other apart
With words,
With actions,
And with a harmful lack of both
Without consideration
And without compunction
Over
And over
And over again
Until it is too late,
Until we've finally exhausted each other
To the point of death,
Or very nearly,
When there is nothing left to do
But let our worn and withered remains waste away in the wind.
I can't say I regret our relationship
Because I don't, and I won't,
Not now,
Not ever.
I may only regret that we won't recognize the patterns in our pitfalls
And won't explore the prepossessing possibilities in our partnership.

Without fail,
Without regret,
Without thought,
The mistakes we make are sure to be made again over
And over
And over again,
Regurgitating,
Repeating,
Reiterating,
Over and over and over and over again,
We're always fighting,
Arguing,
And disagreeing
Always and forever,
​And I will always and forever remember this about us.

Author's Note:

All actual definitions are taken from the Online Merriam-Webster Dictionary.

Define bunkum.

Bunkum: insincere or foolish talk; nonsense. It is the needless chatter of the world around us, invading our space and ears and minds to grab hold of us and pull us in until we emit nothing but white noise into a dark void. It is the friendship between two friends who clearly hate each other but love to be with each other. It is what you hear when you visit the old lady down the street to mow her lawn every month. It is the thing we spend our whole lives running from, and it is the thing we spend our whole lives being a part of. It is what brings us together and tears us apart.

Define rancor.

Rancor: bitter deep-seated ill will. It is the feeling you experience when something unexpected comes your way and throws you out of your familiar mindset. It is the emotion that bubbles up inside of me when things do not happen according to my plans. It is the foul taste on our tongues when that one person with the bad casseroles comes knocking on the doors of our lives, begging to be let back in, seeking shelter from the harsh outside, hoping to destroy the peace within. It is the shared gesture between us when life insists on being unlivable.

Define curiosity.

Curiosity: desire to know: a) inquisitive interest in others' concerns; b) interest leading to inquiry. It is the natural response when you find someone berating an inanimate object or when you discover that another has cried until they had nothing left. It is what leads people to strike up conversations and try to maintain relationships and undermine their independence and vilify each other until they want nothing more than to exit the whole situation and yearn for an escape. It is what has killed the cat, no matter if satisfaction will always bring it back. It is what opens up possibilities and shuts down realities.

Define daring.

Daring: venturesome boldness. It is the moment when a person moves past longing stares and wishful thinking to ask out the love of their night, as encouraged by the beer bottle discarded beside them. It is what a skydiver needs to agree to fall beside their imminent death and to trust their parachute to actually slow their landing. It is what either of us need if we want to progress past our small conversation about nothing that you managed to start up. It is what I will never have.

Define letdown.

Letdown: a) discouragement, disappointment; b) a slackening of effort; relaxation. It is the deadbeat dad or mess of a mom whom we loathe to love. It is the knowledge that nothing will ever go right, that nothing will happen the way we anticipate or want or need. It is what breaks our hearts, so we can find others to fix it. It is what kills us in order to make us appreciate life. It is the feeling when I realize that you have already disappeared from my life, never to be a part of it again. It is my failure to be anything more than convenient small talk.

Define future.

Future: 1) that is to be; specifically : existing after death; 2) of, relating to, or constituting a verb tense expressive of time yet to come; 3) existing or occurring at a later time. It is the entirety of what an infant has yet to experience, a whole lifetime yet to be seen, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted. It is the bell that students await as the last few minutes on the clock tick down until school makes way for summer. It is what we yearn for when everything is wrong and nothing is right. It is the promise made between newlywed couples to have together as they exchange vows before the priest, witnesses, and God. It is something I long to have with you. It is what we will never have.