display | more...
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Thump. Thump. Thump.

I'm sitting here, in my kitchen. Thinking of you as I hear the clock ticking with the the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

You dumped me last night.

Thoughts of you are skittering around my head, whirling like crisp autumn leaves disturbed by a puff of air. Why? Why did you put my heart through the shredder?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Desperate to get you out of my head, I decide to make some coffee. It's a spontaneous decision that makes me think of you. You liked your coffee black, loaded with sugar. It's all I can do not to put out a second cup. Even though you're not here.

As I put out a shaking hand to touch the kettle, the flash of my ring catches my eye. I can't believe I'm still wearing it.

You gave it to me. 'It matches your eyes,' you said, as I unwrapped it. It's just a green stone in a silver setting. But it meant the world to me. To you.

It's tearing at my heart, seeing it sit so innocently on my hand, bringing back fresh memories. The fights, the tears. The thrown objects. I hope the hairdryer gave you a concussion, bastard.

I hate seeing this, this symbol of what we once had together. The love we shared, represented by a silver ring that's still weighing down my hand and my heart.

I try to hate you. But I can't.

You're still here. Oh, for all I know you might be a million miles away, but the ring you gave me has brought you back. The memory of you, at least.

Furious with you, furious with myself, I throw the ring. By some whim of fate, it flies out a half open window. It flashes into the gutter, then vanishes down a drain.

Something in me cries out at the loss. But the ring is part of my life that I now want to leave behind me.

Maybe one day, I'll see you again. I'll be with someone new, someone who isn't afraid of commitment, marriage or families. Or love.

I'll see you again, and I'll hate you for what you did to me. I'll hate you for ripping me apart and leaving me on the floor to bleed.

But for now, each second that passes is like a whole lifetime.

And it's a lifetime spent without you.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.