Not as Simple as Mac 'n cheese
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I made macaroni and cheese in the wee morning hours, alone, wondering why I still loved him.
I mixed the ingredients and questioned if he still cared, or if that was simply a façade to keep me from suicide.
I doubted his love.
Then I remembered the way his eyes looked that day, that fateful day when I put my beloved dog of 14 years to sleep. Good ole Oreo, always knowing she would have to go sometime but never having the full reality hit me till it was too late. If love was candy, his eyes were pure sugar. Full of concern, compassion, loyalty.
I remembered how he panicked when he made me cry, a tone of voice I had never heard and the way his arms enveloped me so quick and so tight, it was like a reflex.
I remember how he said that if love was real, that's what we shared.
But then I think of the way he decided in a day that he had changed and could no longer love me the same way.
How he didn't treat me like someone he once loved - instead, an acquaintance he met through maybe a mutual friend. Like someone he would be concerned about if they met a sudden and terrible death, but wouldn't mourn over enough to shed a tear.
I remember how he told me we'd always be friends, always, no matters what, and how now he only holds true to that by technicality, through scarce conversations and frequent nods, waves, and continued walking.
As I sit and eat my midnight dinner, I wonder why I still love him.
