I have my own life
And I am stronger
Than you know
But I carry this feeling
When you walked into my house
That you won't be walking out the door
A poster from a show by a small-time metal band I've never seen hangs in my spare room. It's of a conquistador skeleton on an abstract background, a gift from an ex-boyfriend that remains one of the single best gifts I've ever received. He correctly guessed my favorite from all the posters wheat pasted to the wall of the only good music venue in town. There aren't many relics in my house from the boys who have come and gone. For one, none of them are saints, and for another he's the only one I'll always love a little.
Relationships are rooms occupied by the people involved. At best, they are decorated by two individuals deeply in love and precisely in sync, each bringing artifacts from their pasts and treasures from their hope chests. These are the homes decorators would call "organic" rather than "curated," warm and welcoming with a feeling of family and history and habitual use. At worst, the room is littered with the clutter of the past, with exes like awkward rocking chairs built for worry and stubbing your toe on in the dark. These rooms can be entered into together, or can merely be a corner of your larger life that someone strays into briefly for a time. The moment someone walks in the door can be as significant as when Stevie Nicks first met Lindsey Buckingham at a California high school party. The moment someone walks out can feel as devastating asSid Vicious leaving Room 100 at the Chelsea Hotel.