Ian McConnell, much like myself and my creative outlets, has slowly been releasing nods to relationships that left scars. He is releasing one song at a time to make up an album about one past lover. 2.10 is Ian’s latest chapter in their tale. They also broke up on a Tuesday….like myself…twice.
“I can’t remember quite what you look like.
I realized on my therapist’s couch.
I don’t remember where your tattoos were.
I'm shaky on the shape of your mouth."
Ian….I wish. I can still see the dark-painted room lit up by a reptile lamp in my first boyfriend's bedroom. I’d be able to act out the way he kissed and I can feel the stubble he hadn’t yet mastered to shave.
I can hear the opening and close of my second boyfriend’s front door. I can smell the way his car would be perfumed of light sweat on the golden seats. I can hear his sister giggling and calling my name when she’d recognize that I was in the house. I can feel that soft and worn basement futon on my bare back amidst the summer heat.
And then there’s the air guitaring visuals from the ex that had his friend draft our break-up text. I can’t remember his laugh but I know the facial expressions that paired. I could draw his smile if I had the talent. I won’t forget the plaids of the living room or of the dress shirt he wore to that celebration Mineola dinner.
I’m not one to forget. I can relive the past and feel the emotions like looking back on yesterday. I believe the memory doesn't get smaller or fade, it's only that my life gets larger in comparison. They grow roots in my mind and each seed blossoms into a flower, the past shaping me into the person I am and the idea that we are all mosaics of our past contacts.
I’m reminded of my longest relationship whenever I’ve drawn a smiley face. Do you think he thinks of me too when he sees the same mark inked on his right thigh? I’m reminded when I’m craving “second dinner”. I can smell his overuse of detergent and scent beads. I can hear the sharp “ha HAA” of his two-beat laugh. I can see the “Can we just have a good day?” texts at 8 AM which paired with the warm tears at 8 PM while sitting in the passenger seat driving down 110. I’m going to remember it all, forever.
It’s not a bad thing. It’s quite nice. It’s splendid to know and feel. Because I’m not sad, I’m smiling. Strangely, it’s like my Granny LuLu’s obit poem card, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”
“I used to know your curves and your details.
Your taste, your touch, your scent, and your sound.
But tryna pull 'em out of my memories
Getting a little difficult now."
Yeah, that isn’t the case. There’s the lover of two subway transfers. I can paint the multiple subtle colorways of his mustache from memory. I can vividly see the special freckle and pose used to show me its location. I can hear the laugh, over and over and my own laugh sprinkled in the chorus of it all. Together, a beautiful song. I'm reminded of these traits by a personalized painting on my gallery wall, by the south seat of my pink silk couch, and with a matching necklace that hangs on display. I can feel how sore my smile was after the first homemade meal. But I can also feel the hurt of unanswered bids. And the anxiety (and success?) from the unexpected domino effect.
"And I learned so much about myself from you
And I love the person that I’ve turned into
And your marks on me are all but guaranteed to last."
I'll never forget...because I don't want to. I don't want to forget that subtle stubble because it gave me my first kiss. Or the two circles and slight curve that are tattoo'd because it's physical proof that there is a forever - in a twisted way. I don't want to forget how my smile hurt because it was the first time in two years that someone made me feel that safe again. And reminded me that I could feel that much too.
I'm simply going to remember. Forever.
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