Falling In Love With Ideas

This is to the girl who got into my head with all the pretty things she did.

Based off a song I really like by a band that consisted of one guy. He broke up the band, and I think that's poetic.

Chapter 1

by: Marfabu
She was poetic; long words and shallow conversations that she'd wade into the deep end. She was all about smiling and dreaming, wanting more for me than I could have ever wanted for myself.

When she'd close her eyes I'd be left torn between asking her to open them again and asking her to keep them closed. It was in these moments that I could better stare at her lips and wonder about how they'd feel against mine. It was in these times that I was rendered speechless from the way that she looked; porcelain skin that I found to be brighter than the moon that kept witness to our actions.

We took her truck out one night and we looked back up at the stars and smiled. I was smiling because she was so close to me and she was smiling because I was so far away from her. I guess that's what led us to crash. We had different ideas of what a future would look like between us but we were too afraid to admit it. We were too afraid to talk.

She told me that she loved me because she did. The woman I loved wasn't a fan of lying, and the first time she said that she loved me I had the audacity to believe her. I forgot that those words can have so many meanings and so much unspoken context that's so needed.

I forgot to ask if she loved me or the idea of me. She fell in love with the idea of my breath fanning against her cheek after we kissed. She fell in love with the idea that we could be happy together. She fell in love with the idea that we were happy by ourselves.

She fell in love with an idea.

She was cheating on me with an idea she had of me.

She breathed my name like it was the most beautiful word she'd ever heard. She didn't put any stress on the syllables and it didn't get caught in her throat. She turned my sandpaper name into a silk one and I loved that about her. She was able to bring out the beauty in people that they weren't able to find in themselves.


It was never Grace to her because she didn't like shortcuts, proven by the routes she'd take me home by. We always got home, though, just like she always stopped saying my name.

She became frustrated when she couldn't find the shortcut to love and I remember laying next to her in the truck bed and feeling that she was so far away from me while I was so close to her. I fell in love with the idea of a woman that I was supposed to love as a whole. I fell in love with the idea of a future that we didn't stand a chance of having together.

I fell in love with an idea.

I was cheating on her with the idea I had of her.

Eventually, she stopped saying my name like it was made of silk. She stopped telling me that she loved me, even if she didn't mean it. She stopped contributing to the relationship and I wanted to know why.

I struggled to make up for her lack of effort with three-hundred percent of my own. I was still in love with the idea of her and I was so in love with this idea that I fell over my own feet when she left our bedroom.


It wasn't made of silk anymore and I wanted to cry. Didn't she love me? Didn't she want me? Wasn't I good enough for her?

It was all that she could do to touch my hair and it was all that I could to stop myself from crying. I told her I could become her idea of me and I could do better and that she couldn't leave me because I loved her so much.

I love you so much, I thought when she took her bag over her shoulder and caught her hair in the strap of it. I brushed her hair out from under the strap, afraid that it was hurting her, and she gave me an apologetic smile.

The smile was lopsided and so sorry and her eyes reeked of forgiveness. As though I was the one leaving. As though I had gotten my hair caught in the strap of my bag. I decided that I hated that book bag. I hated it because, within it, she'd packed up our relationship. She'd thrown all of the paraphernalia from our relationship into a bag and was going to leave with it over her shoulder. Our relationship had more moments than those that could fit into her book bag.

At least that's what I thought. But it wasn't what she thought.


I can still hear my name falling off of her lips and the way her lips crooked when she said it. I can still imagine the smile in her voice when we believed we weren't falling in love with versions of each other. And, sometimes, late at night when no one's home, I can still smell her perfume on my pillow cases.

Sometimes I can't believe that she left me with a back pack of memories and nothing more. Sometimes I think that I can hear her coming up the steps, one lead foot after the other, coming back from a long day at the office. Sometimes I can imagine that we're still young, stupid, and in love. Sometimes I get drunk off of the memory of how drunk we were on each other.

And, sometimes, I imagine what it would be like if I called her out of the blue and told her that I was sorry. I remind myself that it's not worth it, however. Nothing could ever be worth marring those perfect memories of how in love we thought we were with a last word.

We all love ideas. I just loved mine a little bit too much.

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