i know there are times i’m too hard to love, to understand, even to forgive so i find it a miracle that you’re still here beside me. the voices inside of me might never learn how to quiet themselves forever, but they settle themselves down whenever you’re near. we’re not perfect, together and apart, but we are us. you let me be, and you love me for me. and that is enough, more than enough, for me to finally listen to the voices and rise up from them, grow from and with them, face them instead of fleeing. i’m not running anymore, i want you to know that. i don’t want to run. i don’t want to run from myself anymore.
We dance slowly in this room and I can feel the two of us lift off the ground. We are levitating, you and I. Slow dancing whilst I hum one of my favorite songs you learned to play on the guitar just recently. Just for me. It’s just you and me, my Love. Just you and me. Everything is starting to make so much sense. I feel so alive with you here, as we sway back and forth, stealing kisses every so often. All my worries dissipate, evaporate into thin air. My anxieties quiet themselves in your presence. We look deep into each other’s eyes. We hold each other tight and it feels like we’re experiencing all our lifetimes, past, future, present, in one second. We silence the world, dancing in this room, you and I.
The writer writes but never finishes what she’s writing. She goes from phone to paper to laptop to phone to paper over and over again, a cycle that does not seem to know how to end in “writing.” But it does know how to end in the realm of the internet, or in the world outside the window, or in the places around the house that still need to be cleaned despite the ant population dwindling down to a solid zero. And the writer comes back to writing, feeling guilty of the story she has left gasping for air. And in her despair, she writes a poem, and comes back to this, to me, still gasping for air, still breathless, still utterly lifeless. The writer reads my beginning, stops just right before I end, trailing the last few words. She scratches her head, defeated. She throws her arms in the air, I’m still waiting to be given another limb. She sighs, writes a couple of words, goes back to that endless cycle. And I am left—
my heart blooms in times when i never expect it too. i ask why. why it needs to open itself, open me, when all i ever wanted to do is to wrap myself within my arms and use them as armor, as a shield to guard my ghosts and my light and my words and my worlds from anyone else, from anything else, from everything else. but my heart is stubborn. my heart never wants me to miss these moments that will capture my breath, that will run their gentle and sometimes sharp fingers through my skin and reach that which is unknown even to me, maybe leave kisses, maybe leave scars. moments that would leave me afraid because i will never have enough words to describe them. moments i will fail to tell the moon and the stars waiting outside my window for my voice, my stories, my presence. deep and terrifying moments. deep and terrifying discomfort. deep and terrifying happiness.