I never really talked much about the poet on the blog. His name is Stephen, by the way. I guess there's something lingering in the back of my mind akin to a jinx: every time I seem to tweet, publish, loudly proclaim re: a boy, it hits the fan shortly thereafter. Probably, also, because it wasn't exactly the smoothest of romances.
Isn't it funny, though, how it barely even matters how smooth it all was once you've realized every gesture will be the last and you close the door on something for good? Today would've been our four-month anniversary, in fact.
More than anyone I've ever been with, being with the poet screamed "imminent marriage." It was just one of those feelings that cheesy people profess to have. I let a big part of me slip into the new reality of this being the person I was always going to be with and being grateful I no longer had to endure the soul-crushing post-breakup emotional fallout I'm all-too familiar with (and, I guess, so you are you since it's always played out in detail on here?).
Well . . . here we are, folks! Marriage = no. Miserable heartbreak fallout = yes. Winner = Sarah, and all of you.
I tried to tough it out in Dallas for about 30 seconds before I hopped in a car and drove to dear, dear, sweet Heather's house, where I could cry on both her and her mom's shoulders, bless their hearts. There's something to be said for not having to do all of this in an empty apartment in a city with nothing but reminders of your forgone relationship and no friends within weeks of returning from summer break. I only went back to Dallas because he was there, and after it all he was the only one there.
They did their due diligence and let me cry in all the wrong places and not wear make up for three days due to the futility of it all. Eventually, though, the only real place to cry is on your parents' bed while ingesting copious amounts of media, and I made my way back to Utah a couple nights ago. Last time I was here he was with me, so that's super awesome, but it's better than panic attacking alone in Dallas, I say.
So the poet and I tried talking on the phone every day for hours, crying to each other over our impossible relationship and mutual wish for a feasible alternative. As Heather said: "This is a breakup you could legitimately say was mutual; I don't think that's ever happened before." Agreed. And I can't decide if that's way worse or way better.
As usual, though, he's done nothing but do right by me. His number one concern has been that I'm not sad and all alone. We pretended, even, for a few days that we could be best friends and be one of those ex-couples who talked each other through all of it and ended up with each other as besties, too.
How cute.
That blew up that night before last when he said he hoped neither of us would use our communique as a means to fix what was wrong with our relationship and eventually get back together. Cue me feeling like Sarah from 2001 standing outside the SCERA theater begging a certain high school boyfriend to take me back after we'd also tried to stay "friends." Cue click and subsequent dial tone. Also, nausea. Also, feelings up pubescent shame and humiliation. All the good stuff, really.
So, needless to say that's not happening. But this is: (on loop)
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