I am happier with you now that we’re broken. Or maybe I should say that I’m not afraid to be happy with you now that we’re broken. Now the happiness is easy, unabashed, unrestrained and everything because there is nothing else left to be. Being whole, unbroken, notyetbroken, terrified me. I felt like we could be anything and the possibilities were beautiful but maddening. So I waited for the break. My heart clenched in anticipation until it cramped and hurt, and then it hurt so much and for so long that I forgot that I was doing it to myself. I looked for where the break would come from. I looked for weaknesses in what was us – nights when we preferred to eat too much Mexican food and fall asleep by 9p.m. instead of having sex, times when my job made me cry and you didn’t respond to my texts. I looked for what would do it and in looking for how we’d break, I did it. I do it. I break things. I broke us. And you always knew I would. Remember? I do it for all the typical, predictable, Annie Hall dysfunctional reasons. I do it for one or two reasons that are almost right. I do it because I like seeing our insides. I like seeing the sinew, guts, and muscle we were made of. I like hearing what our suffering sounds like – sometimes it sounds like a joke I tell to make you laugh, sometimes it sounds like your laugh. Most of all, I like that now that we’re broken, we can’t break.
*"In living some things are just broken, and therefore own their own beauty." Quote from Jenny Boully's essay, "One Love Affair."