I have always thought physicality was something too heathen for me. Words are and have always been my bread and butter, and physicality, well it just did not have enough of them for me to be interested.
Yet here I am. Ever since you left, I have been trying to replace you with metaphors. I think I forgot how it feels to feel anything but mind-numbing cold.
Words are and have always been my defense, my offense and everything in between. But I can not quite find the right ones to capture the silence after the crackling of a fire.
There is only so much space on the edge, when you came, I had been taking up all of it for so long. There are only so many ways one can bend.
Tiptoeing, perhaps just standing, uneasy, uneven, undone. There is only so much movement a still person can make.
There is only so much space on the edge, and the closer you are, fire crackling makes its way around, under, into me. There are only so many compromises one can make.
It preceded you, the fire. The tip of the knife had been red and burning for days already.
If my mind was a sea, your fingers would be imprinted on all the pebbles. All the fossils would be your fingerprints. When you jump in, so deep you can not tell whether you are floating or sinking, disoriented, an odd sense of calmness sets in. I am stuck in an uneasy moment of harmony. Immense pressure, absence itself is present.
But what are tides if not a caress? What is water if not an embrace? The ocean does not seem so scary anymore, now that you are here, now that you are the only thing I could drown in.
Awaiting, I looked up, and there they were. The past, the present and the future, my body turned to dust, fingerprints all over it. I can never get enough of small realizations. There is so much to do still, all the eyes I have ever caught are staring right at me. A delusion of self-importance, perhaps. One thing I surely know, it is that the upcoming is here and not anymore so far, and peace is relative and the past has been catching up with me. Perhaps a new start, a new past, present and future. There, they were not.
I run my hand through my own hair now.
My fingers still remember his locks, hardy, resisting. They also remember the rusty scissors, me, pulling apart paradise with my own two hands. My paradise, a battlefield. My paradise, a promise. My paradise, a handful of curls on the kitchen floor. A murder with no blood. My jaw… dropped. Once I was the weapon and he was the handler, how the tables have turned. He opened up, and all I knew how to do was stab. Only then I realized, no amount of silver would give me my golden boy back.
There are times I feel like I am made of loneliness. On a molecular level, my atoms long to cling to one another, but even the nonsensical space between them is too much. I pity the organs that do not come in pairs. I am convinced that my lungs are lovers. In perfect synchronization. My heart and my brain on the other hand, distant relatives. Only meeting out of habit, used to not being used to each other.
There is a designated spot for you in both of them, nothing but emptiness has emerged for years. Love rarely comes twice.