Seven Seas of Rye

The Seven Seas of Rye

It ended a fortnight ago. 2 years or technically, 1 year and 1 month. The original and best love of my life. My ex flatmate...yes, I hissed and shook my head like that as well when it first hit me. It was the sense of impending horror, and beautiful, brilliant realisation that I’d met one of those people I could click with really deeply.

It stings.

The worst is about 2am, or 2pm, or whenever we used to speak on the phone. And seeing random things which remind me of him, an opera advert, a blurred figure in his coat, the smell of aftershave.

I’ve been through it all in my head. It was dying on its arse for six months. He didn’t love me enough. Nothing wrong with me or him. I’m not Satan and he’s not a bastard. In the real world, it sometimes just happens like that and falls flat and leaves you picking up the pieces of your life.
For the first time, I did it calmly, and was almost collected when I hung up.

I miss him very badly.

I’ve reverted to older bad habits, but Guinness didn’t help, and wine didn’t help and laughing and dancing hasn’t helped. I just have to ride this one out, sober, and alone.
I was able to tell him I don’t hate him. Anything else would have been a lie, and I’d have carried it around with me like a poison. It still hurts, but I feel lighter.

The Seven Seas of Rye couldn’t drown this pain. I’ve lost my best friend. All I can do is ride the surf and take it slowly.

One more day.