What's in a cup?

Als meine letzte Beziehung endete, sah ich nur noch schwarz vor Augen. Ich hatte keine Hoffnung mehr.   Wie es oft passiert in dunklen Zeiten, dachte ich ans Gebet an meinen Vater im Himmel.   So bat ich ihn am Ende dieses Tages, dieser Wochen, dieser Monate, wie sieht meine Zukunft aus?   “Male ein Bild,” sagte mir Gott.   “Ich? Malen?”, fragte ich Ihn.   Ich guckte in meiner Schublade.   Das letzte Mal, als ich gemalt habe, war sicher in der Schulzeit.   Ich fand jedoch eine Art Kreide und fragte Gott, “Was soll ich malen?” Er antwortete: “Male Mich, so wie du Mich siehst.” “Aber Du weißt, ich bin gerad’ etwas bös’ auf Dich, obwohl ich ja auch weiß, dass Du es nicht bös’ mit Mir meinst.   Aber Du weißt ja schon, immer wieder dieses Ende!   Wann schenkst Du mir einen Anfang, und Du weißt jetzt auch, wovon ich rede, nicht von meiner Wiedergeburt, sondern von meinem Liebesleben.   Gott, ich denk’ manchmal echt, ...

I've been singing, "What difference did my love make?" for the last month, the month since we have split apart, from the moment I said, I thought it was clear after Friday night that it's over between us and you said simply, "Okay." I thought perhaps I would have seen a change, something good, like the flower that grew from the broken heart that Kristie drew and showed to me, but I have seen no such thing in you, only another train wreck. Today I thought I'd ask it another way, instead of asking myself what difference I have made in his life, having hoped it could be positive, since I believe in leaving things better than how I found them, I asked myself instead, what difference did his love make in my life? The second verse playing in my mind, one which was more from his side, was, "how can we finish when we're not yet done?" a question I used to ask myself, when someone had broken up with me, where I felt, I ...

I've been wondering what to do with your stuff, now that we have broken up. What do other people do with their stuff, after they have broken up? Do they burn it, break it, trash it, return it? I am all over being sentimental and hanging on to stuff when it would serve my memory no good, although I am sure it will be fine when I look back. I am wondering if I should burn your poems, the one you wrote me when we first broke up and you were trying to tell me we ought to reclaim our innocence, which made me think you understood how I felt about all the physical stuff and that I really just sought you, wanted to know you more, your soul, your heart, and not your flesh. I wonder if I should burn the other poem too, the one you wrote me on my birthday, which ended in love. Later when I sought assurance and comfort from you, you pointed me to the poem, you sent me off to read it again, as though your job had already been done and there was no need to tell me agai...