Updated: Jul 31
Settling dust doesn’t hide, only dulls, the neon vibrancy of a love laid to rest. Love that cannot have another name. Though I have tried to rename it:
- Seething hate, with a lackadaisical potency
- Suffocating fear, its grip on my throat indefinitely loosening with time
- Sinking sadness, with an infinite depth
But it always comes back to love.
Do I ask what it means? Have I developed a taste for torture and treachery? Or do I miss the moments, sweetened, with the honey of your security. Your arms wrapped around me in my weakest moment, holding me up, reminding me that the world doesn’t stand a chance.
Do we both have scars that lace together like the ribbons of a corset, binding us? Do they keep us up at night, as we run our fingers across the misformed skinned? Thoughts straying to what the other is doing at this moment.
still think of me?
You took a shard of me with you, but I also kept a piece of you. I keep it tucked away, wrapped in silk that feels like a lover’s touch, slipped between old photos that still collect dust, despite being hidden in a box, sitting on a shelf.
Are we fettered by some grotesque version of the thread of fate?
I look for your face in crowds, but when I catch a glimpse, I look away because my knees may go weak and I may crumble. I can’t face you; villain, lover, or hero. I wish I was never part of your narrative. I can’t undo history and no matter how many years, or miles lie between us, this burden has shown no interest in freeing itself from me.
Maybe in a few more years.