He had done this to me.

Like a plague, he had overtaken my every thought, every emotion, every sense. And just like that, it had been swept away like a wandering dustball waiting to be swept under an old couch or rug, the sweeper hoping to hide, the particles of dust waiting to burst free.

I sat in my small apartment, drowning in boxes and tears, listening to some unknown love song play in the background.

Pathetic wasn't even a word anymore, it had surpassed even that.

Tissues, letters, and the smell of ink filled the tiny space and I found myself gasping for air. I had let myself go, let myself drown, let myself fall into a meaningless chasm. And now, I was pining, wishing, hoping that somehow I'd falter and pick up the phone which rang every 3 minutes.

It was exactly three minutes apart.

The submissive ring of the phone jolted me, brang me back to life, made another unwilling tear slide down my salty cheeks. I knew it was him. He was so precise and so damned practical, he knew he'd have to keep pushing and shoving to find a way back into my heart. But I wouldn't let him. I'd just sit here in this cramped space and listen to this song that I've heard so many times before, but yet the title escaped me at that exact moment. Funny how some of the most obvious things were not so obvious anymore and became miniscule after just one moment in time, after one lapse of judgement, after one absinth drunkard spending a night in the streets.

I packed and shoved, I labeled and I forced my hands to mark any recognizable word on cardboard boxes. When most everything was packed, I stared at the one thing yet to be stored away forever, where I couldn't see it, where I wouldn't be tempted to peek into and reliquish any part of my heart I had somehow lost along the way. And there it was, staring boldly right back at me, speaking to me in volumes.

Ringing every three minutes, it was speaking to me, so loudly, so desperately that I had almost reached for it. He had been screaming at me, screaming for me to listen, to receive every word he had to say, to drench in his words. But I never gave in, never let him have the best of me, and a little afraid that I had already given the best away and now this was what was left.

Staring at the empty pale pink wall sans the evidence of presence, I thought about tearing out the cord, the way he tore out my picture from the frame. The watch on my wrist was in tune with his incessant calls, clicking louder everytime a minute passed by triplets. And he stared, itched, hoped, wished, screamed for me to respond, but I just stared, stared as if I was frozen in this cleft of time.

Somewhere in my head a clock strikes 5. I've had 51 urges to reach for him, and there have been 51 occurences in which a smile has been spread across his features. An occurrence, a flash of hope, pain, faith, warmth, and love occuring 51 times, in three minute intervals, all in hopes of recapturing 10 years of learning how to love.

And it had been like this, me, reaching, him, almost touching, singing for me, calling for me, screaming for me in this shrill tone.

There had never been a time like this, when I wished so much to fall in love all over again with a telephone. And it sounds, ridiculous, yes, but if to regain 10 years, to say hello in a tone filled not with contempt, to smile secretly, to say I love you without sounding like a fool, then it would be all worth it.

And perhaps, if this doesn't add up and the calculations and permutations don't come out as exact answers, then it would only be right. It was always this way, open ended, free, jumbled, confused, complicated, and so very lovely.

So this, I guess, is love.

So this pain, I guess, is love.

So this incessant ringing of the telephone, I guess, is love.

And if I pick up, listen for a voice and hear a breath, a thimble dropping in silence, then I guess, would be love.