A Flow of Consciousness
Will I ever write about anything besides him ever again? Will he ever read even a word of it and feel what burned in my fingers, begging to be released? Will he understand or will he push me away? Did he feel it too? The moment I saw him for the first time and
Oh. He's important.
The very first time I made him laugh and
Oh. I hope I get to spend the rest of my life hearing that sound.
Does he think of me in his quiet moments just as I retrace every detail of his jaw and his hair and his chest and his hands and his breath in my silent room with nothing but distant memories to guide the hungry ghost of the girl who had him...once. Does he still daydream like he once claimed to do like I catch myself still with eyes wide awake lost in nightmares of never feeling his arms around me again? Will he feel this way about another and another until the end of his days while I am stuck, a record skipping on my favorite part and it just so happens to be nothing more than his name? Will my lungs ever forget
Oh! How scared I was to send that first confession.
Will that space beside me in bed ever feel like my own
Oh! The way I leave a few pillows just in case.
No. He's the beginning, the middle, and the end. He's my salvation from the belief that I could never devote myself in love to any man. He's the proof and he's the question. The fabric and the needle, tugging what's left of the thread that bares my name along a seam I swear I've traced in every single life before this one.
In victory, I can claim with my dying breath, decades from this moment.
I loved, once.
I loved so well, that there was no need to ever try to do so again.