I wanted to build a life with you. I wanted to fold your laundry, make tea for you, and listen to you cooking while I worked on a game in the other room, shouting an idea to you now and again until you stopped, came over, kissed my head while you read over my shoulder to tell me what to adjust.
I wanted to laugh when you danced and kiss you hard when I was sad and needed your hands on my body, fingers lost in my hair. I wanted to ask you to be a parent with me, to take a journey I’m afraid of but could do with you. I was never brave enough to be your lover, not truly. And you were never brave enough to take my hand when I offered it.
The dreams I had are poisoned with your pain. Your fear. The things that drive you to silence me and keep me a way from your heart. The way you weaponize trust and your love. The way you colour me without asking my thoughts, always reading into everything that slips past my lips or beyond my hands. I lived in fear of your mind’s twisting sense of righteousness.
I still do. It takes all my strength to not reach out to you and take your hand. To sit in shared silence, letting grief give birth to renewed hope. We break so hard every time. Even now it’s the question I want to ask you.
Will you break with me again?
Last updated February 07, 2019