“As hard as it is, I am letting go . At least until I hear from you, or someone else whispers in my ear, “J’e tiame.” And takes notice of the way my eyeshadow creases metallic on a sunny day.

So, C’est la vie. Kyle came over Saturday. He was supposed to be here from 11-3, but somehow he didn’t make it until 12. I had been so excited the previous day when he called to announce his advent. I was epitomizing pathetic exes who’s sole goal in life is to shout “ TAKE ME BACK!” and then refuse to “just walk away.” But when I woke up Saturday morning, everything felt dimmer. Like a color cast off into gray but not exactly faded, just lesser. It was one of those mornings when you wake up and something tells you it’s raining, but nothing’s wet and the weatherman’s out sunbathing. I don’t know. I was trying not to be moody, but I was definitely not going to collapse into a superficial back up plan of “no bitterness.” Civil, yet sincere. There are ways to go about these things.

When he got here I was home alone with Starflyer 59 emanating from the walls in soft guitar glows, sitting in the kitchen writing and drinking tea. He sat down and watched me type and talked about college life and whatnot. The first thing he said to me:

“ Last night when I called you was weird because I was at Walmart. This girl I’ve been hanging out with asked if I wanted to go to Walmart, so we did and then we went out to this big field and sat in a tree and watched the moon. It was so beautiful - this burnt orange color. [ Pause ] We’re just friends.”

I thought that to be quite a felicitous sentiment. I kept typing and drinking tea. He talked some more. I tried to listen, even though I was cresting into oblivion. I didn’t want to be rude, but I really was right in the middle of jotting something down, and I knew concentration on both him and my endeavor would be a waste of time. So in the spirit of “no bitterness,” I went into my room and waited for him to follow. We sat on the bed, at opposite ends, and I turned Dashboard on. There we were separated by a blue floral comforter and listening to the stereo sing . . “And the plaster tinted on your wrists in the where you had your first kiss reminds you that the memories will fade. . . And this incredibly starving insatiable, yes this is love for the first time.” That last time we were on my bed was a month ago. All the lights were off except for a yellow diffusion coming from the kitchen and we laid together debating the literary canon and the importance of Milton as a blind poet. I thought, “how beautiful it is to be in the arms of love and the thoughts of literature.” Now I was in the arms of my pillow and thoughts of my mother. I pulled the pillow closer to my knees and looked out past invisible walls very wistfully like I was sitting solemnly on a castle’s bridge or overlooking a field.

The other day I replied to a letter and a part of my response ( concerning Kyle) read, “I would endeavor to weave the tale in all it’s woe and bafflement, but - and I’m not kidding - it might take up three pages. Maybe if you come for a visit we can drink coffee and I’ll sit very solemn like with a gothic sadness hanging around me like medieval jewelry. And you can sit and take note of the sad way even my once ecstatic hair now droops from the mother roots like a broken child.”

Well that’s how I looked buried in the pillow. Like a forlorn teenager. Like William Faulkner saying “only these are the things worth writing about, worth the agony and sweat. The old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice.”

And he’s so far from being suave. Finally I just said it, “What’s going on?” And he changed the subject. Whenever he gets confused or scared he just shuts down, and he gets mad. Exhibit A: Kyle shuts down. I took on the burden of initiating some sort of catalyst to a discussion about our whole situation. This I did by flinging poems at him one by one, about thirty of them that I’d written in the past few months. Singing still was Dashboard, the music idols epitomizing all that is and ever will be heartbreak. Call me a cliché sentimentalist or an apparent seventeen year old girl distinguished by the maturity of her song choice and hot pink shoe laces.

Whatever, you know? Emotions never change. We just mature and learn how to handle them with more grace and equanimity. Dashboard’s lyrics will always embody the inescapable concept of relationships, perhaps on a more juvenile level, but it will never become an antiquity because the human heart never stops feeling. I left my room to make some chai tea and when I came back five minutes later he had his glasses off and was rubbing his eyes like his hands were a softer version of Kleenex.

A brief tangent: We were in Border’s once and just for kicks we perused the worst case scenario dating guide book and there was this “tip” page for kissing or something pointless like that. It was addressing people who wear glasses and instructed that when two people wear glasses and are aware of an imminent and long kiss, they should always remove their glasses as to prevent any annoying hindrances resting on the face. I don’t know why that’s so funny. I guess just to envision a romantic moment intercepted by the removal of optical assistance.

::end of tangent::

So he finished reading the poems, the last being my version of Brautigan’s “It’s Raining in Love,” - which James posted on her weblog, much to my enthusiasm. I decided not to give him the rest of the poems, most of which seemed so irrelevant after all the recent events. When he read the last poem he just looked up at me and said, “These are really good, Jen. Are you planning on being published, or publishing?” Yet another apropos comment to weave into the moment. Good job Kyle. Props on les juste mot.

Quite nicely I told him that yes I would like to be published and yes I have considered publishing avant-garde poets and what the hell happened, Kyle? Exhibit B: Kyle gets mad. “I... I.. don’t know!” < he flings something on the floor, the poor victim of inarticulancy > “OF COURSE YOU KNOW! YOU JUST DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT! WE DON’T MAKE COMPLETELY ARBITRARY DECISIONS!” He emerged from his flinging fit and said, “ok, where do you want to start?” “How about when you went on vacation? What happened then.” “I thought a lot.” “About what?” “About you.” “Ok . . .” “I was scared about everything.” “Is that when you concluded that you ‘didn’t feel the same’?” “I still like you.” “So you still like me, but you don’t? Right.” “I don’t know, Jen.” We went in circles and absolutely nothing was remotely resolved.

What’s your ideal? I said.

“Girl?”

“Yea.”

“Someone exactly like you . . . who doesn’t read as much.” He tried to laugh when he said this, but I knew it was only to mask the actuality of his statement.

Great. So for once in my life a guy is intimidated by what meager intelligence God has given me. Well, I’ll tell you what, Male Population, I may have to dumb down for society, but I will NEVER dumb down for love.

He said he couldn’t deal with the fact that I was the Romeo in our relationship. It scared him that I was so seemingly perfect. That he had never met another girl more intelligent as him. [ This all sounds so self glorifying. It’s not. I’m eons away from being close to that. My ego is, perhaps, not up to par, and I am in no way declaring superiority and intelligence, this is just what he said. And the fact that I’m the most intelligent girl he’s met sort of makes me wonder exactly how many girls he’s met who can reason for themselves without the suggestions of society. ] Tersely stated, this is the best reason he could give me for what had happened: He was scared about going to college. He was scared about me. He over analyzed it. He ran from it. Now he needs to be alone to find his own “path” in life. As he told me once, “I’m a Virgo, Jen, do you know what that means?” “Um, no. What does it mean? “Virgos are drifters.” “Whatever,” I said. “Superstitious shit. The stars are not your heart.”

Also included in his fragmented explanation was that he didn’t think he was “amazing” enough for me. I asked him if he was blind. He said probably. “It was too much,” he said. He couldn’t deal with me being the structure, with me making the sacrifices. And yea, that’s true to a point. I did contribute a very large amount to constructing a substantial relationship. But I didn’t mind. I naturally am inclined to solitude so seeing him once a week was perfect. That probably sounds weird to some people, but I supposed you have to understand the idea of being alone.

But it was also his choice. He always tells me “blah, blah, I can’t communicate very well.” BS, he’s a writer for the love, COMMUNICATION IS HIS LIFESOURCE! Poets thrive on the art of conveyance, of expressing an immediate emotion, and executing that portrayal with subtle beauty. Communication is a choice. And we need to prioritize our choices. I wasn’t a priority. I felt like I wasn’t even close. I mean, how many boyfriends go out of town for a week without telling their girlfriends? HELLO! Way to disappear off the planet. Not too taint my perfect girlfriend image by admitting teenage concerns of an overprotective woman, but what would you do if your best friend’s existence just dissolved one day? Unfortunately, I don’t have that prescient sixth sense of decrypting the future.

“What’s your biggest fear in life,” he asked. “Not living ,” I said. Aspiring to be something in my youth and growing up into mediocrity because of compromise. There are some truths which are constitutional and inked so deeply within us that they do not fade with time. (I’m not saying that there is no opening for what you believe to be true to change. It does, but it changes in accordance with your inherent values.) I’m not going to come home from a typical job, converse conservatively with my husband at the dinner table and look back on my life while thinking ‘I was so young then. I didn’t know what I wanted. Sure that would have been great. But real love doesn’t happen. Dreams are dreams for reasons. Here we are in reality and it’s not ideal but it’s sufferable.’ If I say I’m going to live in Italy and find that quintessential love then dammit I’ll do it. And if not I’ll live in Italy alone with my cat and I’ll travel and write and photograph and learn and I’ll be happy knowing that I’m doing my best to transcend the mediocre. I’m reading The Abolition of Man, by C.S. Lewis. The argument the book sets up is which is more important, facts or values? Here’s what I think, values aggregate the INDIVIDUAL while facts are general beliefs tailored for the masses. I would rather be a lonely individual in compliance with my values than a discontent clone accepting what society defines as facts. “Well, statistics show that two out of three people never really marry their true love, blah, blah, blah.” The heart does not take the place of the head. But the head should follow the heart.

As we were standing there he started to twirl me around like we were still summer loves dancing in the headlight of cars and stars. It was such an unrealistic relationship. I was enamored with the Anne of Green Gables love, but cognizant enough of life to realize we aren’t film frames perfectly synchronized with reality. And Kyle? Well, honestly, he still hasn’t grown up. He’s emotionally immature and he knows it. He tries to promote growth by lamenting the past and wrapping his mind in a burial shroud.

I grabbed my teddy bear and hurled the brown fur at him like the next dust bowl to strike Oklahoma. He took revenge with the pillow. It was such a childish way to escape things, but we murdered each other with pillows and bears for ten minutes. Then I just sat back down and he said he had to go. The stereo was still going and we both sang along, but to ourselves, to our hearts, and not to each other.

Before he left we stood there very adroitly, holding hands and I couldn’t take the way he was looking at me. The eyes, the smile, the sincerity, the empty space hovering between us like a third person. Yea, it wasn’t too bad. A good way to say goodbye. A peaceful retreat from passion. I decided I was at least going to get one last “closure” kiss out of all this. But it wasn’t the same, so I pulled away and then he sauntered towards the door slowly and lingering like the past. I walked out into the front with him and said goodbye. He was sitting in his car. I sat under my tree. He drove slowly down the street. I waved. And then he left. And it was amazing.