How many wounds can one person have from the mere act of loving another?
Six weeks have passed since your last contact. I have long given up ringing your number, leaving you voice message or texting you, in hopes of a response. It’s as though you have died, though I know you have not. Hiding, you play this game of hiding. In my grief for you, I have come to see you, not as that supernal creature into which I made you, not as that figure I exalted, but as a mere human ~ a man. Flawed, wounded, and perhaps incapable of knowing truly what love is. How can this be? I have asked myself so many times. It just is. Each time you pop back into my life, it’s when I’ve just begun to face life without you, when I’ve just begun to cast you away from my heart.
And I love you so much, so intensely, so deeply, that when I tear you away from my bruised heart, I also tear it’s friable cloak-skin. How many wounds can one person have from the mere act of loving another? Loving another amounts to war against oneself. And painful lessons learned. I am learning more how to be me, just me, and not defined by my relationship to someone else. I know you will re-appear in my life. And I don’t know what I shall do when this happens.
Uninvited, thoughts of you remain in my head. I try to camouflage myself by hiding in the tedium of ordinary miracles. Still, these thoughts, they break through and find me. You have become a persistent spectre, haunting the hazy edges of my brain. In the seat of my mind, I can feel a thick and heavy stillness and the stench of too many words spoken. And my body remembers you, like thorns in my breasts, a beautiful, painful symmetry.
Days, weeks, months have passed. They’ve pile upon themselves, accumulating into years. Yes, years. And I still feel you, a bayonet impaling my heart. My life continues without me, because I’ve somehow locked myself in this dungeon called time. Mad as birds, I languish there, waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for you to return to me. Waiting for you to miss me. Waiting for you to take back this onion, this bitter moon wrapped in brown paper. This waiting clings to me like a fresh caul.
You do not come to me. I wait for your deliverance but it never arrives. And so I sit here, knitting together the fabric of my soul, a fabric which I unravelled in loving you the way I did. And so I sit here, delicately undressing this aching passion, this burdensome love that weighs me down. Like an onion, the taste of your brutal kisses lingers on my lips, in my mouth, and on the tips of my fingers. I spend the nights flickering on, off, on, off. And the days? I spend the days gliding toward the light in a whirling trance. And I sit with your absence, a powerful phantom pain.