Have you ever had that person that you are wholly addicted to? And yet you feel like you need to leave them alone. Better yet, somehow the universe forces you both apart.And worse still, you find that it might be better to stay that way. It seems my musings come at some of the saddest times. But it feels so cathartic. So here’s another one.
I haven’t tried to contact her. This time, I’ve let the distance set in.
Unless you count the all the conversations that I’ve had with the stars.
I haven’t tried to contact her. Unless you count the beats of my heart that, I’m sure, are echoing hers.
I haven’t tried to contact her. Unless you count the way I toss and turn at night, wondering if the old proverb is true.
If you can’t sleep at night, it’s because you are traversing someone else’s dreams.
I haven’t tried to contact her. Unless you count the ways that she is in every word that I write. Every stroke of my pen. She is in every “T” that I cross, every “i” that I dot. She is in every image I describe, in every feeling I put into words. She has disappeared unless you count the fact that she is my muse.
I haven’t tried to contact her. Unless you count the ways that my heart calls out to her because it feels as though I am burning alive in the slowest fire. At once, all consuming, but not the end. A slow flame that is never-ending and yet, ever-increasing. My thoughts turn inward over and over again, but all I can write is her name. All I can see is her face. And I am paralyzed. I am frozen in her grasp. But I swear I have not contacted her.
But my thoughts, my heart, my hopes…I cannot speak for them.
They have tried constantly. They beat upon the door of my resolve until they break it down with the battering ram of memories. The ones that sweep me away until I can smell her scent all over again. Until I can feel her against my skin.
And then…she’s gone. All over again.
And I glance at my phone. I am the most connected, disconnected person ever. But I haven’t tried to contact her.
Unless you count every single moment. Because my being is drawn toward her. A moth to a flame is no longer accurate. It ends once the moth is dead. Fortunate little thing. I am drawn to her and she is a force all on her own. A ventilator that somehow keeps me breathing, and keeps me alive, despite my attempts to tear myself away from her.
I should have told them. Don’t you know? I don’t want to be brought back. Not into her snare. I don’t want to be dragged back in by her bright smile and her clear face. Because all of me looks burdened. My emotions slide across my face, one after another until I am an open book that I don’t want anyone to read. Once I was done, I didn’t want to be roped back in. Because I cannot stop. It is impossible for me not to think of her. Not to try and contact her.
If not with my words, than with my soul.
And still, I have to wonder… does she think of me at all?