Three Stages of You

Beginnings are exciting. They've always been to me. The anticipation of what might this mean for me makes me restless and as impatient as a kid on Christmas Eve, waiting for his presents. A break in conversation becomes a long silence, conversations that last all night long seem short, sleep is inconvenient, compliments make me glow a little bit more and your distant coolness flips and knots my stomach worse than the anticipation of what might I say to you next so that the conversation lasts a little longer. Beginnings are exciting, always are.
I hate the middle, I really do. That's when intentions turn to actions. Conversation is no more enough and each word without meaning is nothing but an empty promise. Your distant coolness now reeks of disinterest and try as I may conversation fails me. From feeling like an integral part of your universe, I start feeling like a mere observer to your life, a witness on the outside. We're no more talking about us, you throw her name around carelessly and I feel the centre of us shifting. I already know we've hit the middle now. From what it could be I can see what it won't be and I watch the slow decay of this thing we're doing. Conversations are laborious, your compliments are half hearted and our smiles no more reach our eyes. I hate the middle, I really do.
Endings always bring with it a sense of relief. It's like snapping shut a book. I think maybe because I hate the middle so much that I'm just happy it's over. There's no more feigning interest or pretending to enjoy each other’s company. The conversations are to the point, friendly sure, but succinct and the need to prolong the conversation or for me to be bright and funny no more haunts me. No deadpan expressions, no half said words, no trying, no questions and definitely no explanations. I'm finally comfortable in my skin and finally me around you. I don't squirm, I'm not flushed and my stomach is happy in its calmness. Only thing that remains is a quiet sigh and a question, what if?

Murmur

I hate it. I always have. It's a reminder of how we were, who we could be and worst of all what we aren't. It's always the same. It starts with a slow murmur, a quiet thought that gains obsession as the hours pass. Sometimes it's a song (our songs, the ones we lazily smiled and held hands to), a smell (your smell, your perfume mixed with the delicious smell I can only describe as you), a movie (the ones we watched together at single screen theatres just so that we could hold hands) and sometimes it's a half forgotten memory (pieces of which I cling on to desperately and recreate from some dark corner of my mind). I'm thrown back involuntarily to the memory of us. The way you felt, the way your heart beat felt against my body and the way your smile felt on my lips. It's a downward spiral I can't stop. It's that lingering feeling again. The dull heartache to remind me you left with a part of me. The breathlessness, the mild headache and the sweating to remind me that even today the memory of your touch leaves me shattered. Slowly and surely, the deep seated wretchedness surfaces its ugly head, reminding me that I was dispensable, that I was the appendage you cut loose, that I was the one who was left wondering why I wasn't good enough