Leaving
Love leaves quietly, shutting the door gently behind it. It may have slammed in, full of passion and high drama, but it rarely leaves in a temper. A stormy end is not love leaving, it is love turning on itself, swallowing its tail, shedding its skin, poisoning its own flesh. It may sicken and rot but it is still love. No, it is when love runs out of words, even the unspoken ones, that it looks longingly at the door. And then one busy morning, when no one is looking, it slips away, and loses its way. Lost love is the saddest of all. Not lost through death or betrayal but left alone to wander away through a maze of apathy and insecurities. Yet the decision to leave is not an impetuous or hasty one. Instead, it comes after years of forgiveness and excuses. It leaves reluctantly but with determination. Even the most frightening maze has an escape route.
Or it fades away, leaving only a memory and a faint sadness behind. Like the dried flowers that crumble into ash, the butterfly wing carefully preserved, that stains the fingers with colour, and then is rubbed away. Like the woman who talks to her reflection in a stained old mirror, because no one acknowledges her presence and there is no one left to bother really.
Falling out of love is not the same as losing it. The first is like moving house. You pack up the memories, the good times and the bad and you tuck them out of sight. Sometimes the regrets are unwieldy and require weird shaped boxes but mostly, it is relief and resurgence that decorate your new home. Losing love is forgetting where you live or the address. You realise that the house is just a facade. And anyway, you can’t recall any of it. The person who once lived there, the person you were, none of it matters anymore because you can’t remember.
Far better to fall out of love, even if it feels at first that you’re out of step with yourself. You may still keep some control over your life, the pattern of change readjusting in time to a new rhythm. When love leaves, or it is lost, when it is withdrawn, when the address for love looks strange and familiar all at once, that’s stepping straight off the edge into the unknown. Every time you feel you’ve reached home, the door flips around or someone changes the locks. You’re playing Alice in Wonderland and you’re never quite sure if you’re the Queen of Hearts or the Mad Hatter.
Love leaves, and leaves behind a twisted heart. A mangled, unrecognisable, still beating unfeeling parody of its former self. Love leaves, and leaves behind an unquiet mind, seething with questions. Still, it is only love that is lost, not the self. The self picks itself up. It soothes the heart and bolsters the mind. And life helps. The minutiae distract from the loss. What was recently thought irreparable, irreplaceable, turns out to be simple relief that it is over. In the end, not quite so different from falling out of love.
The pain and anger recede, leaving behind a truce, a peace treaty – shaky, fragile but better than nothing. Is the address still unknown? Then return to sender.