Brutal Romance
You left me. You said goodbye, let go of my hand, and walked out of my house and into the world beyond our love. The smell of you lingered on the thin jumper I clutched to my chest. It provided no warmth, but the scent of you provided more warmth to my heart than any material ever could.It was a goodbye present, before you went to war. “Something to remember me by,” you said, “but I’ll be back before you know it, back for you to return the jumper.”
It smelled of your aftershave – a smell so distinctive and unique, I wondered whether anyone else had ever smelled such a beautiful smell. It was a light grey, the same colour as your eyes, and that was one of my favourite things about it, it matched your eyes. It was soft, and sewn so neatly, like the designer that made it meant for the jumper to be worn by only those who match such perfection. It was a privilege that such a perfect man would enter my life and allow me into his warm, muscular arms.
Without you, days turned to months and months turned into years. I would get your monthly letter and cherish it, hiding it in a floorboard in my bedroom. You would write how you feared for me, because you had heard that Hitler was going after our kind too. He was safe, in a way, although he was fighting at war and I could get news of him dying any day, he didn’t have to fear being taken, and having to go into hiding.
I missed you terribly, and when the letters stopped I worried. Your parents visited one day, and told me they had received news that you were missing in action. They told me they still had hope though, that missing didn’t exactly mean dead.
People would come by, the ones who knew of us together, and leave words of condolences, even though it wasn’t official that you had died. Their words meant nothing to me compared to what your smile would have meant. I needed you to hold me one last time, for even just a second. I remember praying to the God that apparently thought of me as abomination, praying that we would be together for just one more time; praying that you would be okay; praying that even if I never see you again, you’re alive and well.
And then, the news was given to me. “I’m sorry,” your mother said, “but I have some bad news.” My tears were already rolling down my face. “They found him. But, sadly, oh I don’t know how to say this… he’s gone… he’s dead.” Your mother holds me as I break down, we cry in each other’s arms. We tell each other that it’ll be okay.
She lied though. It wasn’t okay. I still miss you and it’s been over ten years. I’ve tried to move on, but it just wouldn’t work. Sometimes I go back to where you used to work and I hope that I see you, even though you’re gone. It was the same place we met. The place you stole my heart, and you never gave it back – you took it to the grave.
I guess we both stole something, I have your jumper, which you said you wanted back when you returned, and you have my heart… which I’ll never get back.
As I hold the jumper you gave me, which is far too big for me, now that I’m underweight due to stress, I think about how we were, how we were frowned upon and would laugh at the people who spat on our relationship.
I was your man, and you were my man. I love you, rest well, my love.
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