Liz (freewrite)

  Dear Liz,

If someone was to read the secret history of us, love, what would they say? What would they think in hearing of our time in the branches, chasing, catching, losing, finding, then letting go again? They might think you and me were ignorant. Or perhaps savages. Isn't that what you always used to say? That we were savages, beasts. Sinners. You liked that word, if only I would have listened to you more. What did you mean, Lizzy, when you said we were damned? Did you even understand what you were saying or were you just toying with a frilly word that tasted strange in your mouth?
That first sip of wine on your lips, what would they say to that, my love? Who would they find guilty? It's been so much on my mind lately, Liz – the guilty part, who it belongs to, who we are in the shadows, who we might've been if only I were an honest man. But I'm not. And you weren't a very good woman either. I know, I know, but to you , I can say it. You're the only one who would understand. That perhaps good isn't everything.

I loved you, but in the way a tortured man loves fire, in the way you love the ax swinging down upon your throat. The only thing is, the ax went and left me here all alone, somehow still alive. And I'm not happier for it, not one bit. I loved you, I realize, despite everything I know I did. And despite everything you did, also. You lied, but I understood that. Or maybe I understand that now. Back then, I didn't, I shouted and wanted to gouge your eyes out, but you wouldn't let me. Said how are you going to watch me if I do that? You said you were happy and maybe you could've been. Maybe I could've been, too, but now that will never happen.
Sometimes I sit on the side of our bed and wonder, how could you go without me? I knew, Liz. I knew everything that you didn't tell me and I didn't want to. Liz, I didn't care. About any of it, about that man or the men, I don't even know and I don't want to. Why did you have to go, Liz? When I would've never blamed you for any of it? When I would've held you in my arms each night...I miss you and I listen to your records sometimes and wonder what the hell these people are talking about. 'Cause it seems to me they know nothing about love. It's like something cold and hard, like a stone sinking into my lungs. Like tar coating the outside of your mind and then slowly, someone sets fire to you and watches you burn. And you watch yourself burn, from somewhere outside your own head, because now you don't just live there anymore. Part of you is looking for that other someone, the one who screwed you up in the first place.
Like I look for you, Liz, like I'll always look for you. Even though my brains have been burned to a crisp and I only see ashes at the barred windows of my prison. I searched for you years in our world, Liz, but you weren't there anymore. I went down to the park, the little one with no name where we walked once and you laughed and played on the swings, even though you were far too old for that.
You weren't there.

And I came to look for you at the pub you said helped you think, where you went to clear your head and forget about me sometimes, but I supposed it worked quite well, because you weren't there either.

I rode the train down hours, begging to find you, in my best suit, which I knew you would've liked. But when I reached your home, I knocked on the wooden front door and you weren't there.

Now, Liz, you know me. I'm a practical man. I'm not searching out of some heartache, I am no poet, I'm not looking for you to complete me or because of love. Though I did love you, Liz, I hope you know that. I loved you completely, without a helmet, without the safety on, without brakes. And when we finally crashed, it was a glorious moment. But no, I do not look for you because of that.
I'm looking for you because you broke something in my soul, Liz. I don't know what you did, but you fucked something up, you broke something and now you have to fix it. Just like on those long-ago swings, Liz, you're not a child anymore, you can't just sweep the broken toy under the rug and hope no one will find it. You have to fix what you done.

But you're not here.