I don't understand when people say "move on". Move on to? To whom? Funny thing, this love. Funny, how it's always the same story. You never move on, unless to move on to the same expression, the same emotions, those same three words exchanged like a cliched quotation, but a different body. Funny. Frightening. I sit in the auto and next to me I hear a man speaking the same words that have been said to me. Four times over. Love as duplication.
We love like it's for ever. Every time. Is that moving on? It's never forever, because there you are with your watch in your hand and you're thinking, this is not it. I've been here before, and it's been better. Time to move on. I've done it myself, too often. And now, when I hear at one place that marriage is about retaliation and at another that love is mystique, I sit back and wonder at the smarminess of it all, while I'm sipping my coffee and writing this, thinking about you, and how, right now, you are saying to someone else those things you once said, and claimed to feel, for me. I don't blame you. I've done it myself.
So, while you repeat, unrepentant, excuse me for repenting and refusing to repeat.
And you, if I cannot tell you I love you, know that it is because I don't.
'I want you to come to me without a past. Those lines you've learned, forget them. Forget that you've been here before in other bedrooms in other places. Come to me new. Never say you love me until that day when you have proved it.' - Jeanette Winterson.
Don't tell me to move on. Don't tell me to get over it, because 'it' was a person I loved, 'it' was the way I changed my life just so I could fit snugly into yours.