It was dark and I was searching.
My feet were moving, my thoughts on repeat.
The same lines kept cycling. Stuck in a pattern. If I keep going I might let go.
I watched each fence post rush by.
And there he was, and there he was, and there he was, and there....
I was alone so these things had a moment to breathe.
Signs and signs I keep thinking I’m seeing but I’m not.
I’m making it all up
I’m believing what I want.
It’s like I’ve bled into the past.
The past 4 years were just thin sheets and I’m the ink still soaking through to the last real page I had.
I feel so weird.
I just want to be looked at like that again.
I sometimes torture myself by looking at old pictures.
I can see so much light and happiness.
I want to be there again.
I want to feel that again.
Unstoppable and fleeting, again.
Read old lines and find they say the same damn things.
This seems to have no end.
Just two lovers with different hardcovers. Two, now separate, stories that may never find another again.
I went back to a day in 2014 when he said different things to me. And then 2015 when we still said different things.
I wrote the words so I wouldn’t forget that it was real, and it happened. I hid the book for years so no one could find it.
This whole time I’ve been writing things so I never lose sight. So I can remember that things were real, and he used to feel them too. He was afraid too. He feared my permanence elsewhere as much as I do his.
Now…its gone.
He only replies.
The lines are ones that could be shared with anyone.
Hollow and distant.
He was able to dig up his roots, reel in his empty rope, unwind these copper wires.
I don’t know why I’ve always been the one to hold the line.
Maybe I’m supposed to.
Maybe I’m insane.
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