“What about me?” His eyes growing deeply sad as he reached out and brushed his fingers cross my right shoulder. Chewing the words slowly, like gum that has lost its flavor but is still sticky, not yet slick.
Shaking my head, hair spreading on my damp cheeks like broken wings.
What could be said?
How could I tell him that I did not need him nor did I need him to care for me?
He doesn’t have enough love to stop the cracking of my soul. His care and concern is not strong enough putty to plaster over the rips and gouges.
There he stood, facing down the monstrosity of inevitability. Valiantly fighting, soldiering through the muck and grime of persistent sorrow.
[He is not you.
They are not you.
They are not able to stopper the ragged hole left in your absence. I could stack them together, cords of friends, family, and lovers and still, they are not equal to you. ]
He is waiting.
Dropping to my knees, I drop my head slowly to the floor and bash my forehead against the wood.
Don’t believe that wood has a natural give, that is much softer than stone.
The skin splits just the same. The blood pours out just as quickly.