BUT WHAT IS LOVE WITHOUT LOSS?

More of my writing, as always from CotMWM:

"I always forget things after I have broken up with someone. Leave stuff. I always try to take everything with me, all my movies, clothes, letters, all the things that I had taken with me when visiting the boy’s place but somehow I always manage to forget something; a book, a spiral pad with my thoughts in it, a dress. Once I forgot a black scarf, my favourite one. That was annoying. I never go back to collect the things either; with the scarf, I couldn’t even if I had wanted to. We lived in different cities, different countries. Jump on a plane just to take it back? It was bad enough I jumped on a plane to see Oliver in the first place. I didn’t want to see him again and most of all, I didn’t want to be a guest in his life, someone’s who just picking up something as opposed to being a natural part of the scenery itself. Why would I want to go back to just doing a cameo when I used to be in the starring role? It seemed undignified. So I left it there, just like I left five CDs at Avery’s and four books at Sam’s. But what bothers me the most isn’t necessarily the lost items per se. Sure, it feels fucking stupid to have to go out and buy Marianne Faithfull’s Broken English when I know I used to have it. But I can replace stuff; I’m not precious about objects. What really gets to me is the thought that these boys use the stuff I’ve accidentally left behind; Maybe Sam takes the book with him on one of his camping trips, Avery might listen to the one of my CDs while doing the dishes, perhaps Oliver wears the scarf when it’s cold outside. The idea of it really, really, to the core of my being, bugs me. Bugs me to death! Some girls would probably like it; in some perverse way, they would think “Well, at least he’s thinking about me.” But I’m not one of those girls. That was my scarf, my CD, my book. In a way, I guess, I am precious about objects, but only because they are mine; they don’t cease to be mine just because I left them behind. I don’t really think Oliver thinks about me when he’s wearing the scarf either; he’s probably thinking he looks great in the black scarf, and the “the” will soon be replaced by “his”. Or when someone asks him about it, he’ll say “Oh, it belonged to some bird I dated.” Actually, maybe that’s what’s bothering me the most; even though it was mine, Miranda’s, a scarf I wore on every fucking day we spent together, I’m still reduced to being just “some bird” when leaving it hanging on his door. "

- The creativity of the mess we make, Julia Melin