Thursday, April 30, 2009

Holding on to nothing

He won’t tell me. So I pretend. That our reasons are the same, or at least close. It’s possible he can’t tell me. Because he doesn’t know. And sometimes, I must admit, I don’t know either.

How we got to here. From there.

I want to tell him, "I’m yours," thinking it might not be so obvious. Like, "I’m dreaming," or "I’m nowhere," or "I’m nothing." The games we play to guess what we already know. Like sitting in the dark, waiting for the electricity to come back on. Making up inane questions to fill the voids. Tickles of confession coughed from the back of our insecurity.

It's hard to describe what I want. Other than everything that is lacking. The sweep of warm fingers over cold skin. The stampede of anxious hours as I try to tame them. We have no future. I have no place in his past. But anything else becomes loneliness demanding my full attention.

I know who he is. On the inside. I’m not waiting for him to be someone else. I wouldn't try to dissolve the layers of emotions between us. But the emptiness keeps falling into my hands, until I am incapable of holding on to anything.

1 comment:

  1. This is so intelligent and poetic and emotional and lovely.