Three months. Three glorious months I spent with you. Three months of my life with you, and a lifetime of wishing it
had all turned out differently. For starters, I wish you would have seen the way I looked you in the eyes when I talked to you, and not down your shirt, at the overcompensating cleavage you wanted me to notice. I always thought you
were beautiful, I didn’t need to see your breasts, however intoxicating they were. I wish you would’ve put down that
damn bottle for a moment, to realize I was serious when I asked you to be mine. I wish those boys, those awful boys you tortured yourself with, would have just left you alone. I wish they never knew how vulnerable you were. I wish
you were better at hiding it. Those long nights we spent, sneaking out, and drinking at the cemetery. Well, you drank. I stopped when it became too much. I wish you knew how to say no to yourself. I honestly, and truly wish we could
go back to those days. It was so much simpler then.
The day you met him, I knew I had lost you forever. When he told you he loved you, you believed him. He was worse than those high school boys. He was smarter. He whisked you away, and he made you his. His property, his ward;
his wife. You were so young, and you fell for his lies. His promises of a lifetime of happiness, with no reason to
believe him. He bought you things, these pretty little things you didn’t need. You felt like you owed him your life, and he expected it. He took it. He left you an empty shell, and the only one who could see it was him. Oh how he fed on
it. He drained you of your life, your will to go on, and he loved every minute of it.
I saw you, seemingly back from the dead. Crying and walking down the street. You were a beautiful tragedy, a
Shakespearean love story, doomed from beginning to end. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I blinked, expecting your hazy mirage to flake apart, like ashes in the wind. The mascara running down your face, that lacked all emotion. You were even more broken then when you were taken from me. I called to you, and you looked up, your eyes wide, your
mouth a gape, in an unstable sense of wonderment. You stopped, and I ran to you. You didn’t speak. Your eyes
locked on mine, and you spoke only my name. I hugged you tightly, and wished I could keep you in my arms as long as we lived.
“You look amazing.” You did. You weren’t the young woman I remembered only from the Polaroids I kept hidden
away. Although you carried years beyond your due, you were stunning. “That dress is ... I’m speechless.”
You laughed half heartedly. One of those laughs that leaves you unsettled, and questioning what you said. “It’s funny you say that,” you began, making it very clear it wasn’t funny at all, “my husband can’t stand it. Oh, by the way, I’m married.” You held up your hand, with faked pride, showing me the rock he bought you.
I was taken aback, I had no idea you were still with the bastard. Six years, and you were still with him ... I couldn’t
imagine what he had put you through. You must have seen the look on my face, the look desperately searching for a response.
“I miss you, Cilla.” You smiled, a small laugh escaping your ruby red lips, matching your dress. I hadn’t seen that
smile since even before you ran away. Just seeing any smile of yours was a rare occurrence.
“No one has called me that in a long time.” You looked at me nostalgically. I could practically see the wave of
memories drift over your eyes. “Let’s take a walk.” You said, linking your arm with mine. We ended up at a cemetery. A new cemetery, in a new, and strange town. It was a place our pasts didn’t know.
“What are you doing here anyways?” You inquired, after an hour of catching up. I explained to you that I had moved a couple years prior, looking for work as a journalist. I also explained how I wasn’t writing controversial articles, but
personality quizzes, far too humiliating to disclose to just anyone.
“What were you doing out at night so late?” I questioned you, with a smirk. I felt more comfortable with you again. I
wasn’t afraid to say anything wrong. I had let my guard down too early.
“My wonderful husband excused me from our anniversary dinner out, and told me to wait outside, because I looked
like a hooker.” You were completely serious, until you laughed your contagious, genuine laugh that always got to me. We were leaned against a tall, decorative mausoleum. You locked onto my eyes, and our laughing died down. You
lunged towards me, and our lips collided. It was passionate, heated, and desperate enough that we couldn’t resit
The lock had been easy enough to break. Making love with you on the damp, cold, stone mausoleum floor was everything I had imagined it to be, in our teen-aged years. Your lipstick was smeared, and my shirt was missing a few buttons. We were there until dawn, making
love, talking about life, while surrounded by generations of death. It was the start to the picturesque disaster we
We were trapped in a pleasure-fuelled, secretive existence. Night after night, we ran off together to the cemetery, and each passing day, I saw more and more of your old self. We made love, and talked about our impossible ideas of our future together. Running off,
changing our names, starting a family. We lived in a fantasy world that couldn’t penetrate the stone barriers of our
own little, make-shift love nest the mausoleum had become. We called it, “our twisted little home on Cemetery Drive.”
Oh, how we laughed about that. A marvellous month and a half had come, and gone, and things began to change.
One night, it was hot, steamy love making; the next was accompanied by a bottle of hard scotch. After sloppy,
drunken love making, you reminded me of how dire, and risky our situation was. I of course, knew this already, and
thought nothing of it. It continued like this for weeks. We would make love, then dwell in a depressing ocean of
consequence, the water becoming deeper and faster, the farther we waded in.
One day, you met me at the gate. You clutched the song I had written you, professing my unrequited love for you.
You were crying again, as you did most days. You were wearing the same red dress you were wearing on our
unconventional reunion. The darkness, and the shadows from the looming willows overhead hid you away from me.
I reached for your delicate, thinning hand, asking you what was wrong. It was wet, with an unmistakably thick, and
crimson liquid, that made me pull you towards me, in the little light the moon was providing. My hands were sticky
with your blood, that you hadn’t bothered to clean from your mutilated wrists. A nasty coping mechanism that had
followed you into adulthood. I could muster a simple, “why, Cilla?” and nothing more. You cried to me, he found you
sitting on the edge of the tub, and smacked you hard, considerably less gentle than my approach. You tell him
everything about the affair. You apologized to me profusely, screaming at me to forgive you. I was in shock as you
told me he was coming for me. Just then, the chain connecting the cemetery gates together broke effortlessly as his car crashed through them. Before I knew it, he got out of the car, and knocked me to the ground. He held the gun to my head, and I looked into its dark, cylindrical tunnel, threatening to pierce me right between the eyes.
You shrieked at him, grabbing at him, and puling with all your might. “You promised! You said you wouldn’t hurt him! We made a deal!” You recounted, still screaming at the man, your husband. He hit me with the gun, knocking me off of my knees. You didn’t come to my aid. You stood by his side. “ I can’t see you any more.” You declared dryly, and
quietly, in a whispered tone. “This was a mistake. The man I married is the only man I love.” You turned around, and got into his, now dented and chipped car. He stared down at me for a moment, before following you. I laid there,
motionless, until I could no longer hear the last, faint sounds of your husband’s car travel with you down the dirt road.
I walked into my apartment hours later, to find it trashed. I was furious. Not at my desolated home, but at you. I had
given up so much, risked too much for you. I felt so cheated, and lied to. I had cried with you, when you drunkenly
explained that we couldn’t carry on our relationship, that we had always returned to the next day. I was so numb to
your sobs by the end, my tears were nothing but lies, that I was only able to create from sheer devotion to you. I
didn’t undergo this intolerable rage until I saw you again.
You had left me a message, asking to meet me on Cemetery Drive. The whole walk over, I conjured up all of my
grudges, and I released them onto you. The song I had written for you, the song that explained my love for you, love powerful enough that I was willing to die for you, was what you brought with you when you betrayed me.
My half-hearted hatred poured out of me like an uncauterized wound to the jugular. You were crying, without apology, which enraged me. You pushed yourself forward into me, your lips locking with mine. For a moment, I had forgotten all of
my detest, and kissed back, leaning into your frail body. It was when you started to unbutton your blouse, that I pulled away. Your kiss was addicting, and only reminded me of your empty, and broken promises. It was so difficult to end
it. “You made your choice,” I explained, “and this is mine.” You looked at me hollowly, dumbfounded by my announcement. “I was always there for you, and I was willing to die for you after all this time. And you still chose to abandon
me.” I began backing away from you, not losing my eye contact.
“David, please.” You sounded so childlike, so wrongfully innocent. Like you were too infantile to understand the
concept of right from wrong, in regards to what you did.
I shook my head, “Goodbye Cilla.” I turned from you, and never looked back. Despite your begging, that turned to
sorrowful, undecipherable wailing. “We can be together!” You yelled, saying anything, hoping it would catch my
attention. If you thought you loved him, and chose him over me again, you never loved me in the first place, because you simply never knew what love was. After all, you never loved yourself. I sound like a horrible excuse for a human being. I became much like the stone monuments to people we so often turned to for comfort in that moment. I cried more than I ever had that night.
That is, until last week, when your husband found you. You had cut too deep, curled up on the floor of the harsh,
florescent lights of your bathroom. Your blood pooled over the white floor tiles. You had laid down, waiting for death, not before leaving one last piece of yourself on the mirror. “I do not deserve love.”
I stand in solitary, looking down at the damp, freshly churned dirt that lays over your coffin, so far below the surface.
I scrawl, “I miss you” onto the back of your grave. I hope from way down there, you can read it. I’m writing you
another song, Cilla. This time, it’s about Cemetery Drive, and our fifteen minute romance I’ll pretend was authentic,
for my own sake. Regardless of what was said, and done, I miss you. After all, that was all I was wanted for.