Before I had any idea what it was really like, I might have written copious musings on lost love. The songs I listen to, the films I watch, the books I read are all ruminations on lost love. But, I have learned, there is nothing poetic about losing love, not really. I suppose if you tried hard enough, you could make a mountain out of the pathetic molehill that is the reality of that crappy situation. I was controlling, and full of complaints. He was secretive and stubborn. For awhile, we were in love, but then we were both too stubborn to admit failure. When the end finally came, it was too sudden to seem real, and neither one of us particularly wanted to admit our relief.

It is the relief that gets to me. The relief to be free of this person that I still care for, despite fiercely wishing it were otherwise. I can visualize the day where the sound of his name evokes as much emotion as the word tofu. I can visualize it, there, in the future! But, in the meantime, I am stuck in a single today, where I do all I can to avoid thinking of the multitude of yesterdays.