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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Monday, 31 January 2011 18:42

Breaking Up

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We broke up Thursday, Valentine’s Day. It was not I who did the breaking, nor was it him. It was only the waves of the ocean that broke us, and only the pulse of the sea that shattered our hearts on its rocks of discontent.

Not the literal ocean, of course. Poetically speaking. Raymond and I are always poetically speaking.

Maybe it was the poetical speaking that broke us after all. The moonlight didn’t shine on us the night we broke up, but it did the first time we kissed, washing like purity over our tender heads. I remember the way he reached out to me—I, the gangly one, I the strange one—and drew me toward him with hands that burned like fire on the small of my back. The touch of his lips on mine was like a word, a great and sounding word, a word that resounded through our ages and all our stages and brought us together, floaters on the sea, to cling with tenacity and purpose.

I remember walking from the grove of birches that night with revelation obscuring my sight. It was not Raymond, after all, who broke through the veil to the inner me. Nor, I see now, was it I who tore his curtains and let the light into the darkest caverns of his heart, though I certainly tried. No, it was the Word that pulsed between us. Only the word.

Inseparable, of course, and complete only when touching, we transcended the stereotypes—well, so we thought. We held hands in a peculiar way, a way in which neither hand was on top and neither obscured from the light.

Obscurity and neglect were the silent stalkers in the night of our love. Night? Or Day? Does it matter?

Raymond, how my soul longs for thee, how my heart yearns inexpressibly for thee! I do not even eat since we have parted, I do not breathe. Where are you, Raymond of my soul?

Why did we break up? Why did the waves crush us? Can we be reformed? Raymond, beloved one, I am sorry. I will strive toward you, will you strive toward me?

We broke up Thursday, and that is when my life ended. But it will begin again, if you will pick up the phone. Pick up the phone, Raymond, pick up the phone.




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Emily McIntyre

Emily McIntyre is a writer and literature student based in Kansas City, MO. Her fiction has been featured in Midwest Literary Magazine, Indigo Rising and Hogglepot.com, among others. When not writing, she enjoys playing the Celtic harp at many events under various weather conditions.

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