“I can see my ex calling
Hold up why my ex calling
Don’t know why my ex calling
Why the f*ck my ex calling?”
You stumbled upon it while you were sweeping my room. I wasn’t in at the time but when I came back first thing you did was confront me about it. You held up an empty condom wrapper in my face and demanded an explanation. It was unusual. We hadn’t done it in a while and I usually kept my room spotless. Still, I denied knowing anything about it. But you could see past my bullshit. Your eyes bore into mine. You stared into my eyes as if searching the depths of my soul for an answer. I tried to maintain eye contact but when tears began to well up in your eyes I couldn’t. I broke eye contact first.
You asked me who. I didn’t give you an answer. You asked me when. I still didn’t give you an answer. You asked me where and I still kept mum. And then you asked me the most difficult question of all: why?
I remained silent. I didn’t give you an answer. Speech is silver, silence is gold the adage goes. But in this case, it wasn’t. Because silence is like maybe. It isn’t a yes or no. It’s imprecise. It’s indefinite but it speaks volumes. My silence incriminated me and marked the beginning of the end.
You eventually ditched me. I can’t blame you. I deserved it. But I didn’t give you closure. I didn’t answer the burning question: why? At the time I didn’t know. After much reflection perhaps now I can tell you why I did it and give you the closure you deserve.
Our friends said we were incompatible. My friends said we were a mismatch. Your friends felt the same way. But we felt otherwise. You were extroverted. I was introverted. You were outgoing. I was reserved. You were spontaneous. I was inhibited. You could dance. I had two left feet. But somehow, we were in sync. We complemented each other. Your strengths built on my weaknesses and vice versa. But maybe our friends were onto something. Perhaps deep down I knew we were never meant to be together.
Or maybe we moved too fast. Strong relationships are built on firm foundations. Perhaps our foundation was weak from the start. Like a sand castle at sea, perhaps it was destined to crumble. We didn’t get to know each other as well as we should have. But we couldn’t get our hands off each other and before we knew it we had consummated our relationship. I thrust into you while smooth 90s R&B tunes played in the background. As I did, we kissed passionately. We looked into each other’s eyes as we made love. But maybe we didn’t make love. Maybe the entire time we were together all we did was f*ck.
Sex is intimate. But there are things more intimate than sex. Like conversations. And I’m not talking about small talk. I’m talking about intimate conversations. Perhaps we should have had more of those. Conversations that revealed our vulnerabilities. Conversations that exposed our nakedness and showed our scars. I must admit you tried to initiate such conversations, but I didn’t reveal much. I was calm. Like still water. And you know what they say about still waters, right? They run deep. Maybe I did it because I was scared of letting you explore the depths of me.
Perhaps I did it because deep down I envied you. Perhaps I felt like I’d never be adequate enough for you. To tell you the truth, I often felt inferior to you. Like I wasn’t good enough. We were both artists but you were the better artist. People acknowledged and admired your paintings. They barely glimpsed at my poems.
A lot of times I felt overlooked. Not just by people but by you too. I didn’t talk about it but it hurt. I felt insignificant. Like a drop in the ocean. Unheard of, like a whisper in the wind. Whenever I’d talk about my poems you’d stare back at me blankly. Disinterested. Or maybe you just didn’t like poetry. But I wish you did.
I wish you’d stared at me the way you stared at your canvas whenever you were painting. Paintbrush in hand, you’d fixate all your attention on the canvas while doing your brushstrokes. You looked at the canvas with a glint in your eye. I wish you’d looked at me the same way. You were married to your art. Consumed by it. And perhaps subconsciously, I knew I would always play second fiddle to your art.
Perhaps it was lust disguised as love. Maybe I was just physically attracted to you. Perhaps it’s your shapely figure, perky boobs and apple bottom ass that drew me to you. Or perhaps I loved you but I wasn’t in love with you. Perhaps I was in love with the idea of you.
Heck, I know this will sound cliché but perhaps it was me not you. Perhaps I should have examined my own heart before committing to you. Perhaps I should have looked into it hard. In hindsight, perhaps getting a soulmate involves doing serious soul searching.
As I’m thinking about all this my phone begins to buzz. It’s you calling. On my way to work the other day, I saw a massive billboard of you. You were beaming on the billboard and your name was written across it in huge caps. The billboard was advertising a huge art festival. It’s a few days from now and you’re the main act. The way you worked tirelessly on your craft I knew you’d make it big someday.
I assume you’re calling me to tell me about the exhibition and possibly invite me to it. Despite everything that happened between us I was always your number one fan.
Perhaps now I can answer your call and tell you why I did it.