Heartbreak is a funny thing, except it isn’t funny at all.
Which is why it’s funny.
An ironic, tongue-in-cheek feeling that swallows all other base human instincts when it’s in full drive. Debilitating? At times, but funny either way. I know heartbreak isn’t singular to just me and I knew every day that I was dripping wet with the cliché of it, but to me it was an atomic bomb.
And so I listened to you for a year straight. I listened to the background music and the music to a silent film and the soundtrack to saying goodbye until I was walking around with my head hung low, my heart hidden, and only middle fingers on my hands. I felt nothing for no one, except for the words that were said to me when I pressed play. Over and over and over and over. I fell more out of love with her, and more in love with you.
I would find myself taking time out of my day to hear you. I would catch myself feeling that I needed to listen to you to escape. I would stay in my car to finish your album. I would take the long way to the coffee shop to finish your record. I would stop other music because I would have a urge to repeat your lines like a prayer.
And I never thought I would get to see you in person, but Sunday I did. You were beautiful and fractured and messy and painful. In a room full of your other suitors, suitors that knew every word just like me. Suitors that had lost their minds for longer than just a year, suitors that held a connection to you deeper than I had with you. And you know what? I was glad. I needed to be cheated on by a crowd full of fists and hate and passion. Because I needed to know that I wasn’t alone in my love affair with you. And I needed to know that I could let go but still have you in my life, and that you weren’t my life. With the last words that you said to me that night, my lungs emptied of you.
“But you gotta know – you have my heart.”
by Andy Wilcox (@wilco204)