"I'm Not Crying, You Are"
I used to dream of the day he'd say he loved me. It'd be sincere, like rain plummeting onto dry soil. It'd be soft, like a hymn sung between chapel walls. Intentional, like poetry. Intricate, like the pulse that beats for him. But my fortitude crumbled beneath silence. There was never intention, only substance, but nothing substantial.
Two years and countless faces later, I can still recall the night I held him last. He was in my arms but absent all the same. His flight was at six-thirty that morning; there would be two thousand miles between us for three months. I resented the distance while he lay indifferent. It was as if my world was drifting away from me, into some faraway orbit. I'm sure there's a term for that—one he would know. He'd studied astronomy and was acquainted with space.
As I drove him to the airport, I felt on his behalf. When I parked, his hand twined with my own, I watched—no, I felt him withdraw from me. Maybe the moment was too real for his liking. He trembles before stillness as I quake at the foot of desertion. Only now do I realize that those who have been abandoned often repel closeness. Intimacy imperils attachment and attachment imperils loss. It is safe to pull away from what makes you most vulnerable.
That's the thing about walls—you keep the varmint out while simultaneously making yourself occluded from love. To veil yourself from latent dolor is dolor all the same. I said "I love you" at the risk of non-reciprocity and received "I'm never going to love you" in return. In three months' time, he returned. Two weeks later, it was over. I spiraled. I quivered. I cried. I shattered frames. I starved my body. But never once did I regret the love I gave.
Yes, my soil was met with drought. But could it be drought that taught my heart how to pour rain? To bring to another the vitality I don't have? Is it silence that gave me my voice? By his negligence did I learn to nurture? I've come to the conclusion that experience without ascension is just another moment passed. If I could go back to that morning, I wouldn't think, "Why doesn't he love me?" I'd ask myself how I ever rationalized my love for him and leave it there.