I Will Lay Down my Heart
‘Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t
You can’t make your heart feel something that it won’t
Here in the dark in these final hours
I will lay down my heart
And I feel the power
But you won’t, no you won’t
-Bonnie Raitt (but listening to the Bon Iver version)
“Well, you ruined everything,” Ashley sighed.
“You asked how I felt, so I told you,” I explained. “I’ve known you for years. We’ve been here for years. You shouldn’t be surprised.” Of course, “here” was always ill-defined and ever changing. We existed in limbo, teetering back and forth between the potential for something great and being strangers.
Right before Ashley said I ruined everything, I told her I still loved her. We were having a text conversation about us and I thought I was being brave and spontaneous, declaring my love while passing through Universal City Walk for dinner.
“There could have been something great between us,” she said. “But you ruined it. You always do this–rush into things.” It’s odd to think that a confession of love can be perceived as a selfish act, especially because it’s meant to represent the exact opposite.
“I’ve known you for six years. We’ve been here over and over again for the past six years. How am I rushing? This is where we start every time.”
“I feel like you don’t care about me,” she complained. “You seem disinterested when we talk. You never call me.”
“Did you not hear what I just said?”
“Well, whatever. I don’t believe you.”
I don’t remember how the conversation ended, but I know it didn’t end well.
A friend of mine once compared Ashley to a cat because she is notoriously fickle and hard to predict. When she complained I never called, I called more often and was told to leave her alone. When I tried to give her space (and silence), she said I didn’t care about her. We are in this complicated waltz with each other, where she seems to know all the nuances of our dance and I’m trying to follow along without stepping on her feet.
A few days later, thinking I was giving her enough time to cool off, I texted her. No response. I finally had a chance to call her and I got those irritating beeps that tell you the person has disconnected their number. I don’t know why the phone company even bothers with the beeps, when everyone knows they pretty much mean “fuck you, you don’t mean enough to get my new number.”
Her name is to the wind again and while I feel a bit empty, I strangely don’t feel sad.
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