without
The old clock on the wall makes resounding tick-tocks throughout the house all the way from the living room reaching the bedroom, reminding me that time is passing, minutes come and go and I am without you.
My mind is trying to reason with me, I'm arguing with myself for the billionth time, but I can't put my fears away, and all this time on my hands let me dig them out, pick them up and study them up close. The more I study, the bigger they become, until they take up all the room in this apartment, they grow in record time, from a little, shrivelled seed hidden away to filling the space between all the walls.
Until they choke me.
They colour my white space black. It starts with a cloud of gray that spreads like cancer, that lets me wallow in egocentric misery and self-pity. This destruction of all that is beautiful always goes too far, and I poison everything I touch with it.
I can't help it. I'm trying to help it.
I know we can't always be truthful. Honesty is a double-edged sword. If you told me about the places you miss and the people you've thought of, would it make things better? Would it help anything, would it chase away the darkness that holds nothing but fear?
These things we tell people, I suppose there is some truth in it, and some lies too.
Wanting to make them feel better. Realizing there were good things that we sometimes miss. And that's okay.
“Do you miss me?”
“No.”
I suppose no one ever replied with such honesty. Or maybe we always miss someone. Anyone. Or everyone.
Words are empty, maybe that's true. But they hold all these fears. They awaken them, bring them out from their corners and into my space.
Wishing for clean slates. Wanting to read you like an open book.
When night turns to day, I have stayed up, fighting the dark. And I think I've won again, I think it's all back inside of me, and I can keep it there for another little while. Maybe someday the cage will be time-proof.
We close our eyes for a moment, I trace your skin and imagine that no one ever felt like this before.
No one ever did. And everyone did.
disappoint
I can see you so clearly sometimes, and it breaks my heart.
Your pretending, my disappointment.
I know what you tell them.
You'll never be happy, you are never happy, you want to run away.
I want the truth from you, but we probably wouldn't survive it.
I wish you could be happy. And I wish I knew you.
our secrets
These secrets that we share, these truths we keep from each other.
We're born and raised like this I suppose, and it keeps growing more deceitful. These stupid little secrets that come to mean so much more than they had to, or that actually meant a lot this whole time.
Perhaps would have changed the course of destination, but were kept to prevent that.
Still, those secrets are kept somewhere, by someone, sometimes by the wrong someones. And they reappear, and they haunt us, and they never let go.
All these secrets that we share. Just not with each other.
invisible
Maybe you didn't see me.
The same way no one really ever does. Or maybe you did.
The balance between the opposites is what makes relationships complicated, like we want everyone to see, but if they did, then what? If they did, would they?
If you did, you'd be a saint. It's not as if I tried to hide, not at all. I just don't see how.
Repetition is the only thing I know.
difference
It would feel like any other day.
The day you felt the difference.
And it became so scary saying it out loud.
Like it is somehow more real if you do. And you come to realize it’s true.
It’s like all of our secrets come tumbling out of a jacket pocket.
You would look at me, and your face would tell me you knew what it felt like to be me.
Because we felt the same.
every melody in the trash
"How do you know?"
"Think about it. Have you ever been happier than right now,
lying here in the grass?"
"I guess not. No."
"And have you ever been sadder?"
"No."
no one belongs here more than you
I never return phone calls.
I am falsely modest.
I have a disproportionate amount of guilt about these
two things, which makes me unpleasant to be
around.
trying hard
In Werner Herzog's Encounters at the End of the World: There's a bit of footage in the middle, of a penguin who becomes, in Herzog's word, deranged. It shows us three penguins, one heading off to the water for food, one heading back to the nest, and one just standing and looking at the mountains. Eventually, the penguin heads for the mountains. Waddling along, adorable. We're told that even if that penguin is retrieved, and placed in his nest, he would immediately leave and head straight for the mountains again. We're shown footage from eighty miles further, as the penguin passes a small diving camp. Still heading for the mountains. Everyone stands still as the penguin passes, forbidden to interfere, and the camera pans to watch him heading straight toward the mountains, and the 5000 miles of interior beyond. And his certain death.
It was a powerful juxtaposition, is why it hit me so hard, I guess. The penguin was so enthusiastic looking, waddling excitedly toward the mountains. Toward its death. I keep thinking back to the footage of the penguin just looking off at the mountain instead of going for food or going back to the nest, like he was just realizing there might be another choice. And, yeah, maybe that choice means death, ultimately, but it's hard to watch him try and not feel a little excited inside your heart.
with you
What if I hadn't been that far away?
You looked at me the way people look at other people when they're asking questions they know the answer to.
I didn't have one though, so I smiled and pretended to know what the answer was and that I knew that you knew too.
Maybe sometimes we're never really that close to each other at all. There always seems to be at least one universe between us, even though our hands are touching and our feet might be touching too.
And sometimes when I look at you, I don't know who you are.
Admittedly, sometimes I look at myself, and I don't know who I am either.
Then again. When I look at you, I know exactly who I am, and who I've been.
And who I want to be.
And you make me feel like I'm home, wherever you and I might be.
“What if I hadn’t been that far away?”
You looked at me the way people look at other people when they're asking questions they know the answer to.
I didn't have one though, so I smiled and pretended to know what the answer was and that I knew that you knew too.
Maybe sometimes we're never really that close to each other at all. There always seems to be at least one universe between us, even though our hands are touching and our feet might be touching too.
And sometimes when I look at you, I don't know who you are.
Admittedly, sometimes I look at myself, and I don't know who I am either.
Then again. When I look at you, I know exactly who I am, and who I've been.
And who I want to be.
And you make me feel like I'm home, wherever you and I might be.