I had vowed to myself that I would never write about you again, but today I feel the words tumbling out of me like marbles, scattering on to the floor through the weathered base of a cardboard box that I should have known couldn’t hold the weight of my thoughts for so long. They roll around me in all directions, even as I try to gather them up in coherent sentences but all I can really do is sit down and let the cacophony of promises ring in my ears for ages before dying down rhythmically. I grab two fistfuls and hold them to my ear, listening for the sound of your snort or the crinkle of your shirt. Suddenly, the silence is deafening.
The days pass me by, but the perpetual flip calendar on my mantelpiece is still stuck on the day you bid goodbye, much like myself. I’m still not done untangling myself from your hug; I swear I saw your ghost on the platform when I stepped into the station the other week for the first time since then, and it was all I could do to avoid wondering if you’d feel like stepping out of your carriage the next time you come this way, and if you’d spy a piece of me where you left me that night.
I had vowed to myself that I would never write about you again, but I suppose it’s inevitable that I do. I might have finally woken up to understand what I had been blind to all this while; I might have started assimilating and absorbing the intricacies of your responses; but try as I may, that fails to change the nature in which I perceive you. I thought there was magic in the space between you and I, and knowing that the words between your lips and mine had nothing but emptiness to navigate was not an easy truth to encounter. But then again, understanding all the ways in which we are not special failed to change the fact that you are.
I’m unsure who deserves another chance between us, or if at all it makes any sense for either to. Sometimes, I gather up my heart in my arms and try to pick the shards out while singing a lullaby. Sometimes, I feel the urge to pick up a piece of glass and stick it back in, wincing as it slices a vein open. I can feel happiness seeping out of me, and it feels like you’re the one holding the stitches.
You’re the one holding the stitches, and the one holding the shards. Me? I simply bleed.