Untitled

this is a short excerpt from a larger piece i'm currently writing.

It was surreal. That’s the only word I’ve found to describe it. It felt like the earth dropped away beneath my feet, and gravity suddenly ceased to exist. Your gaze was the only thing anchoring me to the ground at that moment; that was the only truth my body could accept. That crazy, clanging carousel called life stopped, for just a second, and let me get off. I couldn’t feel the inertia churning inside until I was still. Until you stilled me.

All because of a letter. And that was the thing that was most surreal. It was the outcome I had most longed for. The only outcome I pictured in the wee hours of dawn when I couldn’t sleep for the thought of you, thousands of miles away, and wondering if you were tossing, restless as I and for the same reason.

It was as if all my thoughts had been circling you for months, but I had found pleasure in distractions. Distractions that made me believe I was moving on; that I was finally moving past. But, once the excitement dwindled, and all my cluttered rooms had been swept clean, I realized that I was truly missing something. There was some part of me that was empty and radiated a dull ache through my bones. I could feel it in my marrow.

I thought back. Really forced myself to go to the places I was hiding from the world. Was it that I had lost my purpose somewhere along the way? Was it that I had unfulfilled dreams? Was I disappointed with my choices? Did I regret coming to this new and wonderful place?

Did I know when I was most content? Could I pick out days, hours, moments in my life when I felt safe? When I felt connected? Accepted? Appreciated?

I could. It was a small voice, an echo of another thought at first, but then louder, more powerful. I could. I knew the feeling of arms around my waist, surprising and soothing all at once. I knew the scent of a musk that made me drunk on the giddiness it induced in my heart. I remembered the measured look, not of ego-stroking or awe, but of intrigue, that I would catch cross your face. For a moment I saw myself as a mystery, too. One that I wanted you unravel thread by thread.

And once all these memories flooded my mind, I couldn’t shut them out, couldn’t force them back to where they came. And then they picked at me. I wasn’t sure what to do with these broken shards that surfaced every so often, pricking my skin and drawing blood. I didn’t know if I should continue to pick them out and stitch the skin back up until they, and you, were gone completely. I wasn’t sure if I should just let the wounds fester, and set maggots to the raw flesh to excise it all.

But I decided that I couldn’t just let it all go. What if you had been picking shards, too? What if you had been too afraid to show your scars? The pride, the show, it no longer mattered. Who was I putting on a show for anyway? You were the only one I ever wanted to know the story, to help write the end. I was tired of the act, tired of pretend. You were hale and whole. Tangible. At least for the time I had you. And I had let you go, and I accepted it. I knew it was my doing, not yours, that led to this rift.

I realized in some small way, that all my actions, all my choices since you were to somehow get me back to you. Everything I did since, led my heart back to yours. And once I accepted that, I knew I couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t just walk away.

The letter was my way of slicing myself open, showing the raw parts, the ugly and disjointed mess. To lay myself bare without fear of reproach, only a fear of silence. I needed you to know. And I knew that even if you didn’t feel the same, even if you never uttered a single word more to me, I would not regret my last attempt at your love.