I Bought Myself the Flowers, Obviously

You left and somehow your mug stayed.

Rude.

Your jacket stayed too, draped over the back of the chair like it hadn’t heard about our breakup.

I held onto everything for longer than I care to admit.

Your side of the bed.
Your stupid phone charger.
That one sock I unearthed from behind the sofa weeks later.

I thought if I kept the house like you were coming back someday, maybe I could pretend there was an us to walk through the door each night.

There wasn’t.

Anyway.

One Tuesday, I opened the windows because the bedroom smelled lonely.

That was it.

The big moment.

Well, not very dramatic when I say it out loud, was it?

There was no rain.

No hysterical monologue about how hard life was suddenly getting.

No amazing woman materialising from the ruins, leaving me wondering where the hell I’d seen her before.

Just me standing in boxers, squinting against the afternoon sun and wondering how the room got so dusty.

I went out and bought some flowers.

Pink ones.

Very pink.

The kind you would have scoffed at and said were a complete waste of money.

Honestly?

Purchasing them was all the better for that.

I put them in a jug too because I could not find a bloody vase.

Turned the music up, burned the dinner, danced around the kitchen and nearly fell over a tea towel.

Healing?

No.

Very graceful.

Very dance like everyone is watching you kind of moment.

Took a sip from the glass you told me only had “special occasions” wine in it.

It was Tuesday.

Suddenly Tuesday was special.

Not because it was Tuesday, but because I was still here.

And somewhere between setting fire to the food and me screaming every other word of the song at the top of my lungs,

I realised that I’d spent way too long waiting around for someone else to make life feel nice again.

Buy me flowers.
Plan dates.
Hold my hand.
Say something clever.
Know when I was having a rotten day without me having to prepare an entire bloody PowerPoint presentation.

So.

I started doing some of it for myself.

Not everything.

I still want to be loved.

Obviously.

Honestly, I’d give anything to have someone love me right now.

I still want someone to reach for me in the middle of the night.

Still want to hear that sleepy morning voice.

The kiss on the forehead.

“Text me when you’re home.”

I just don’t want it badly enough to accept less than I deserve from someone else.

See?

New.

The house is mine again.

Much messier than it was when you were here.

Louder too.

There are flower petals on the dining table.

Dirty dishes in the sink.

I’ve got about three plants that I keep forgetting to water.

I call it my jungle.

Please respect our privacy during this difficult and extremely dehydrated time.

Some nights, I still think of you.

Ridiculously annoying, but it’s true.

I miss me.

When I thought you were sticking around.

But missing what we had doesn’t mean I should glue the two of us back together again.

So I don’t.

I buy myself the flowers.

Sing the stupid song in the shower.

Take myself home.

And slowly.

Bloody slowly,

the life I thought I’d lost with you

starts feeling like mine again.

Words from the Poet

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If this piece lingered with you, these two posts might be lovely to read next.