Just the Facts
I sit at my desk and read our texts out loud like a court reporter, devoid of emotion and without inflection to make the logic of it all more three dimensional: just the facts. The X-Xs are only letters, a stutter. And suddenly I’m a detective, looking for someone or something that I can use as evidence to reconcile the damage. The damage presents a separate issue – how I distance myself from pain and confusion and how I pull it close to me. I press down on my bruises to keep them purple because when they fade you’re gone. I’m the masochist and the sadist. Some days I’m a healer, others I’m a patient; I’ve imagined myself to be many things since you left.
I feel a little bit alone but mostly I feel older. You never get the feeling of first love back – terrible and innocent mistakes you will never make again, oscillating confidence and insecurity all at once, and an omnipresent giddiness that makes you feel invincible and your love, no matter how vulnerable, infinite. It’s what I mourn when I think about our death, my youth. So, this grief is more about the loss within me than anything else.
And still there are days where you take me over like fog eats buildings in New York City - so much of you all around me that I forget I’m standing.