My roommate shattered your mom’s portable coffee mug today.
You know, the blue and white one that I should have returned ages ago?
I forgot all about the morning you brought me coffee in it to first period and I forget what it felt like knowing I’d have the remainder of eternity to stop by and put it back in your cabinet.
It’s only been a few weeks and he’s already getting tired of me I think.
He didn’t care for my 3rd favorite movie, Blue Valentine, the depressing indie drama with Ryan Gosling, that you at least pretended to understand.
He keeps talking about his exes but I guess I can’t complain because I’m talking to one of my own right now, at least figuratively.
Maybe I’m losing it, or I’m already past the point of crazy, or maybe all the blue brokenness of that mug reminded me of my haphazardly pieced together heart and the fragility of, well, everything.
You know when you drop and break something, pieces scatter everywhere and you sweep it up and give it a once or twice over and pick up maybe two more pieces by hand and soon everything returns to normal and you stop tip-towing around the bathroom tiles, checking for pieces you might have missed the first time around and the second time around, and eventually you go back to strolling to the shower, barefoot, carelessly, and sleepy in the morning, only to be stopped in your tracks by a sharp pain in your heel, just a couple days later?
It’s like you’ll never be able to pick up all the pieces in time before you get hurt again.
I think that’s the best way to describe what keeps happening.
-Ps. this isn’t about missing you, I’m only addressing you because it was your mom’s mug and so nobody else would get it.