Only Those Pictures Remain

Whenever I would look at him, I’d keep on trying to imagine him as words in my head. Smart. Sexy. Witty. Charming. I’d try to somehow form a memory of him in the way that comes to me most naturally—words.

But as time passed, only pictures remained in my mind.

The images that cycled through my head were his eyes—the three most distinct temperaments in his eyes.

The way he used to look at me in the morning—eyes that seemed to be full of wonder at his being there with me, clothed only in timid sunlight. At those times, I felt home. I felt that was all I needed—his presence, and our mutual astonishment at being.

Then his eyes during midday—clutching his unfinished lunch plate with white knuckles, yelling. I didn’t even understand him at that point—all I understood were the eyes. His anger, and his lack of respect.

And then the way he gazed at me at night, as he whispered to be forgiven in the dark. The confusion in them. I looked at them until I couldn’t take it anymore—until I turned my back to him and cried yet again.

Three pairs of eyes. I felt that if I continued what I had with him, we would cycle through those sets again and again. But out of three, two of them would have me weeping.

I knew then I would have to let him go.

Thanks, airportstories.