In the weeks leading up to leaving you, I would drive around after work and take the corners too sharply, run every red light I came to, and alternate between turning the heat all the way up and rolling down the windows because I couldn’t breathe. And on these rides, I would fiddle with the radio dial and hear to the all the songs we’d argue about, songs we’d listen to after making love on a blanket by your fireplace because you would never let me in your bed. Songs I hated, songs you loved and songs sung by a person who couldn’t possibly understand what I was going through. And yet. 

I remember telling you that Fleet Foxes would never be played in my car, and you laughed. 

"Darling," you said. "So long as you stop singing Train in the shower."

We made love on the 14th of April, and after I hummed “Drops of Jupiter” till you fell asleep. 

Is it possible to say that one day you just wake up and realize that you hate the person sleeping next to you? That in reality, someone who knows you inside and out, who knows you like your coffee black with two sugar cubes, that lavender makes you sleepy, has become your enemy? Is it possible to wake up and realize that the person you think you’ve told your secrets to doesn’t really know the exact spot that your heart lies? Doesn’t know to what rhythm your heart beats when you’re in his arms? It’s funny how we can know so much about someone, how we can unlock the gate to our soul and let them in, and feel like they’re still outside, unsure whether to come in or to run and hide from the monsters you keep leashed behind that gate? 

By the time you’ve forgotten me, I will have finally remembered the name of an Indian restaurant we went to three years ago, and you argued with the waiter. I kept quiet and ate my curry, we never went back. 

When I remember you on rainy days, I will remember your love of Blind Pilot, how cold your feet were during the month of January, how you called your parents at four every Sunday and how you insisted my middle name was Isabel. 

It’s June now, and I’m just now remembering that my middle name is Emma. 

Fleet Foxes still suck, I don’t miss you anymore. 

Fleet Foxes still suck, I miss you every day. 

Fleet Foxes still suck, I don’t know why I left anymore.