A metaphor for wilting flowers

I wasn’t going to write about you anymore. I wasn’t going to give you the time. But my thoughts are full and overflowing and I need to make space for new things, new pathways, new experiences, new connections. I need to eradicate the memory of a thousand conversations, the feel of your body and the sound of you roaring in my ear as you came.

It took you five days to suspect I had blocked you. Five days to realise I had stopped responding. It took you a day to respond to my last message, a photo of a bunch of tulips. Tulips that had been sent to me by someone that loves me who I don’t love back. They obviously weren’t from you.

I had sat looking at that vase of flowers on my coffee table, staring at their delicate petals, wondering how someone I could love so much had ignored my messages all week. Someone who I had wanted to tell immediately my dad was in hospital but couldn’t because the only way we communicated was via an encoded messaging app that you obviously rarely checked. Too busy or just not important? I guess I’ll ever know. Two days before I could share that news with you and another two days to share with you those flowers.

It’s been two days since I took leave from uni because I don’t know how to manage my research project with so little time left. All these things I couldn’t share with you because you were never there, not even at the end of a phone.

I sat staring at my flowers wondering how someone could love me so much when I gave him so little in return and why I couldn’t love him but instead pined after a man I would never have. Wondering how I could be happy with someone with whom I would always be a secret while on my coffee table was the evidence of a man who made me his priority every day. I do not love him but I do deserve someone who loves me like he does.

I blocked you and it took you five days to realise. Five days to try a different channel to contact me. The time that passed told me everything your sparse words did not.

I went out on Saturday night with my country friends and I had fun. So much fun. It was nice to forget about you for a while. In a single night a lovely guy made me feel more special than you had done in nine months. Fuck, has it really been that long. Granted he and I had met before, two years ago, through my country friends. Shared a connection a bit like you and I had. You probably even know him. You farmers all know each other. And for one night I felt like maybe there was someone out there for me that could love me how I love you.

It took you five days to notice. I wonder how long I would have waited for you to leave or to get tired of me. It was inevitable, as you told me. You can’t fight genetics after all. I don’t really think you wanted to.

It had been five days since I cried about you and now, I can’t see for the tears. “Good luck” you told me as parting words. If I was prone to sarcasm I’d almost think you didn’t mean it. But I think you do.

The tulips are starting to wilt. There’s a sad metaphor in that but I can’t be bothered painting the word picture. I’m so tired of it hurting so much.

Five days. I hope my love is worth more than that to someone.

3 thoughts on “A metaphor for wilting flowers

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  1. I’m sorry. I do this to myself all the time.
    Short story: I matched 2 very different guys. One is perfect on paper and the other is rough around my preference edges. mr perfect has no kids, looks good, checks up on me and now annoying me. mr not so perfect has 3 kids, one is a few months old, not my usual type physically and promised to call me at 8pm tonight, except it’s been 7 days. guess who I’d risk bearing my soul to….

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