The death of a mosquito

Falling in love with you was like getting into a cool pool on a hot summer day. I dipped my toe in, toying. Slow and strained. I fought back a bit, second-guessed myself, then all at once I dove happily into you. Underwater of our love I was lighter than air, softer than silk, safe.

Safe. 

I remember the moment I realized I loved you. We were walking by those marshes on the side of West Ferry Lane, where all the fireflies come out in the summer. We stopped to appreciate the speckled light from the creatures, reverentially mourning the freshly set sun, creating the backdrop to a serenely lustrous mood.

You smiled at me and then swiftly raised your hand and lightly smacked my cheek. “Damn mosquitos,” you laughed. I bit my bottom lip, a million "I love you's" running through my head. I had no idea that the gentle death of a mosquito would transgress into the death of my unabridged optimism.

Abuse is funny like that. It can reduce a soul to a desolate whisper beyond repair. However, my sad soul is a creature of habit, and every time I see you I'm unrealistically transported to the same safe feeling. Occasionally, when you crawl into my everyday thoughts, the memory of us momentarily freezes everything inside of me while my heart folds into my lifeless soul, and I can see the thought of you suspended in the air in front of me, spreading painful nostalgia through every cell of my body. Then with a slap sharper than the death a of mosquito, my whispering soul, along with the untouchable memory of you dissipates into thin air. 

It is not my fault that you waited to reveal the transient monster that shadows your best self. It is not my fault that I fell in love with half of a person. It is not my fault that you loved me so much you hurt me, but you didn't love me enough to stop. It is not my fault that you crushed my soul like you crushed that mosquito.