Occasionally, when you are in the same room as me, I turn my head, look across the room, and imagine you can hear me speak. Not out loud, but in my head, in your head. I look at my reflection in the mirror, and can feel you standing there. I turn my head towards you, look up at your face, and your soul speaks to mine, even though your words are silent.
Nowadays, I don’t know if you hear my voice any longer. Even after we embrace, and my hands smooth past your shoulders and I breath out, worried and on edge, “this will hurt me.” You tilt your chin and turn to me, your eyebrows don’t crease, your eyes stay still, your face makes no movement. It’s as if you look right past me to something beyond the present. I place one hand on your chest, above your heart, and feel it beating to the sound of everything that is going on in your head. I feel there is no space for words, for conversations, acknowledgment or otherwise.
When I look back at the time we met, four years ago, I remember you were, over expressive, unrelenting, and particularly inattentive. I understood, even back then, that you were not rebuilding. You were climbing, indifferent to how cracks, and fractures, and devastation could help you. We are, all the parts that we have ever been, that’s true. But who you are today, broken and breaking, and reassembling is the earnest soul that speaks to me. Well spoke to me.
And I fell for you. Not like a martyr to the crusade. But two deep hearts, in one room, at the right time. It was sweet really. We were sweet. And afterwards, the strength of your brokenness, the fear in your confusion, your vulnerability to keep coming back to it, kept me.
There’s new chatter now, my soul heard that you are no longer in the room with me, and it’s okay, painful as it may be, it’s okay, because this is the virtue of my breaking.
Aren’t humans beautiful, when they open, and feel, and face, or even when they just take the smallest step to peak over the ledge, at the incoming destruction, and all the things that seem wrong within themselves, but they look, and see, and want, to, finally accept it.
We are something else.