you said that
i am in love with you, that you can see it in my eyes, but i don’t even know anymore. maybe it was the smell of that balminess you rub into your beard or maybe it was the serendipity of knowing you were near or maybe it was just the alcohol that quiets all my fears and convinces me that dark can be light and i can trust the night and maybe that’s what you saw in my eyes. i have said that i love the way our brokenness dances together, but your brokenness treats me like shit, and my brokenness lets you, so perhaps the familiarity of pain and commiseration is actually the antithesis of healing, the opposite of home. you said that i am beautiful, that you can see it across my life, but do you love me beneath my skin? you are ambiguous and hesitant and the words that mean the most are mumbled under cowardly breaths with eyes averted. there are many things that i feel for you, but the question is truly what do you feel for me? i was told that men show their intentions and their heart with their behavior and not their words, and when i view the youandme through that lens, how you feel (or who you are) is quite clear because you know how to unshutter the windows of my soul, but the truth doesn’t stutter when you turn and let go, you always let go of me. you said that i only love you when you are walking away, but how will you ever know if you don’t ever stay? maybe the truest question is why do i keep showing up? you are the antidote to my ancient sadness (though quick-acting, but not long-lasting) and your accolades drip like honey off your tongue onto my soul, you are like heroin in my blood that lifts me above the tangled briars of childhood and beyond the wreckage of failed fathers and husbands; i know you are no savior and no god, but god damnit i love taking hits off of your moonlit skin, despite the emotional hangover that awaits me when i wake up in the forever of lonely tomorrows. so maybe it’s not love, and maybe the magic between us is better called addiction and maybe the problem (after all) is me. fuck.
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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