Last night was the last night that August and I will ever truly be together.
After making the necessary arrangements, I went to his flat to say goodbye. His room was in shambles, with his wardrobe doors flung open and clothes scattered about. His eyes were red rimmed and he was sitting cross legged in a rather painful looking position; sorting through massive stacks of music.
I wondered why he didn't just send everything off to be packed in boxes, and the question came across on my face. He merely shrugged and stood, stretching his legs.
"Just the essentials. Some of these really shouldn't be left behind." He motioned expansively to the stacks behind him, and I felt horribly empty inside.
I helped him pack away his things and sort through his music. The sheer volume of it was astonishing, piles of piano concertos, string quartets, symphonic works, sonatas. Partitas, fugues, tone poems, chaconnes; his own compositions, neatly notated, some with hurried, scribbled, changes. And finally, the last piece of all, a crossed out, ink blotted reduction of the score that had brought us together. August silently packed it with his things, and my throat was too tight to speak.
It took so long, that at the end of it, we simply stayed on the floor, pulling down the pillows and sheets from his bed. I fell asleep nestled in between the crook of arm. When I woke, it was dark, and I had various sheets of music stuck to my arms and legs.
I must have spent atleast an hour, watching him snore softly and dreading the rise of the sun.
We both mutually agreed that it would be rather pointless for me to go and see him off at the docks; any sort of affectionate goodbye being impossible. I have to admit that I greatly preferred the last heart-wrenching kiss before we tore away from each other, which was far more honest then the stiff handshake that our farewell would've become in public.
(Or, atleast that my farewell might have become. August is sometimes so reckless with propriety that I shudder to think of what might have happened had I gone with him. Best not to think of it.)
However I might slander him, perhaps the most annoying thing is that I bear no ill-will towards him or our circumstances. Rather, I admire him for sacrificing what my father never cared enough to sacrifice. Want of reputation in the past cost me a family and a father, but August bandies his about so much that it's hard to tell he even cares. I've cursed him in the past for it, now I love it best in him.
He promised he'd write, and I promised the same. He told me he loved me, and I told him that he didn't need to say it again, he'd already told me at least a dozen times and I had said the same to him. All the same, I told him I loved him, and he left.
I feel so thoroughly miserable, and I don't know what I want to do. I do know what I will do, I will stop wasting paper and ink writing about my troubles, and I will start thinking about what I shall write about to him.