What's Mine is Your's; Your's For Good

- December 2013

He was mine. 

Every part of him was mine.

The part that gave me roses, the part that made him dribble his toothpaste into the sink when he spit

(which always weirded me out),

The piece of him that breathed you’re the most amazing woman I’ve met. 

I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.

Then the part that cheated.

The part that confessed it.

The part that drank too much whiskey.

The part that wanted to read cuddled on the couch with me, rarely, but still.

I claimed the part of him that struggled as a drummer,

The part that came home at 4 a.m., drunk, stoned, when he told me he’d be home hours earlier, and I up waiting, wide awake, waiting for footfalls and the door to click open.

His family was mine, I wanted his sister for my own. 

The part of him that delighted in watching me open Christmas presents,

That watched me play the violin and would ask me to teach him.

The part that danced with me so closely, and danced well,

The large portion that became a hard-core cyclist and knew what it meant to be an athlete.

That person that would leave the seat up on the toilet, the dishes moldy in the sink, leave doors unlocked and open, and a gas stove burner on and unattended all weekend.

These pieces, slices, droplets, parts I gathered, held, fused them together, and made him whole for three and a half years. 

I reveled in that, for the most part, even the bad.  

Even the terrible.  (I was blind.) 

He was mine and I was his.

I reveled in that...

Until I didn’t.

And though I cannot help but detest the little naïve brunette bitch that replaced me (though she bears only a small portion of the blame) I hand these fragments and shards to her.

He’s your’s now. 

Good riddance and

Best of luck. 

You’ll need it.