“You shake my bones and you rattle my brain.”
It is written on your Wall and I want to punch it. It was a place She touched and I want it to disappear, to have never existed in the first place. She had no business there, inside the room you never let me in. You never gave me what I claimed for my own; I have always felt as if loving me comes as easily to you as tearing out your own molars.
You give yourself so easily to me now, almost so easily I laugh at it. It strikes me as funny – not funny ha-ha, but funny as in incredibly strange, and so off-putting that I have to ha-ha at it or else be caught like a deer in headlights at the realization of how you make me feel.
But on the story of your journey from Point A to Point Me, you are silent. You tell me nothing, only that you missed me so, even daring to challenge me to a love-you-more contest. My dear, not even the loneliest of lovers could light a candle to the torch I carried for you. You can never know the depths of that darkness; I live to forget that girl in every moment I rewrite with you.
I loved you first and in the quiet awe you struck me into, I gave away the opportunity to seize the moment. I threw you aside and gathered every consolation prize I could find, telling you and desperately telling myself that I was fine, really, totally absolutely fine, you were like just a friend anyway. Really, that would be so weird.
Except you never were and no matter how long I waited for my heart to still, it never has.
And now, after all this time, we are retelling this story, introducing new characters, and changing the plot in twists I couldn’t have dreamed up in my wildest drunken stupors. It has been the most entertaining, enchanting, feel-good story I’ve ever heard. So disgustingly beautiful I want to cry and throw up and fucking smile about it.
But I feel as if there are pages ripped out of this book, and your narrative is missing. I have always pulled words from your heart as if on spiderweb silk – thin and so painfully delicate – but I have always been able to find them. This… for this I have nothing.
For this love, there is no explanation, there is no apology. There is no reassurance and there is no cure. There is nothing but the existence of who we are and what we knew was meant to be. We don’t even know how we know it – we just always were, whether we knew it or not.
There are words in the Universe that explain everything. For everything that exists, in every realm, real, imagined, fantastical whatever-the-hell, there is a word for it.
is the word