Friday, June 12, 2009
The shelves are stacked one on top of another. Some are white, and some are black; some are right, but some are wack. And as I look at these shelves, I think how much like life they are.
The shelves stand empty now. They were full of his things before. I hated his things; they were useless trinkets, probably gifts from ex-girlfriends. Some seemed really exotic, but I know he's never been to such places before. He prided himself on these shelves, and I hated them, but now that they're empty, I miss the way they once were.
Two days ago, he packed up his things and he left. He didn't take everything. But he took the trinkets, and the best six years of my life. He left me, though, with an old half-empty bottle of shampoo, 3 dirty unmatching socks, a Dutch-Swahili dictionary, and six years' worth of memories. Long, wonderful memories, with a sad ending. Oh, and he also left a note.
In the note, he explained everything, and nothing at all. He said he had to go, couldn't possibly stay, but I don't know why. Is it the shelves? He said I should move on, find someone new, someone who would deserve me, but he didn't say how. He said I shouldn't cry, shouldn't think about him anymore, everything was really for the best. But is it really? The note was 30 pages long. He walked out through the door, carrying all of his bags, but he left the shelves. The crooked black and white shelves. They stand here now, mocking me with their emptiness.