I’m in a country outside of you, outside of us and what I imagine we have, and I’m still thinking of you. I forget you only gradually; watering down coffee with milk and overflowing my sensitive mind with white noise. Now we have a simile, we have a start.
When I return, the immediacy of you will not fell me like a bowling ball, it will not bump into me as if you were the table and I the toddler.
It’s still not time to admit the defeat – we have an expiration date, it’s fine – and finally, some reprieve is granted me. You are not here, you could never be here, and I exist in a bubble away from you, so when you tell me you never thought of me that way, I can return here again. Puzzle myself back together, retrace my steps for how to get over you. Thing is, if I never have you, you will be an ideal forever, and nothing will compare to the fantasy of you.
Don’t you see? I must have you.
But still I trudge on, expecting nothing and receiving a lot in turn. You shouldn’t give me this; it’ll turn into hyperbole in a heart beat. That someone so little as me should be granted so much is a recipe for pain and crushed belief.
But still I trudge on, learning nothing and sealing my own future wounds. This is not you being cruel; it is me and this conjured dream I put on you. Made you wear it like a doll, forcing your feet into shoes you were never meant to fit in.
And still you don’t even know. You’re sitting there in shoes and crowns and jewellery from another dream entirely, and can’t even see you’re wearing it.
You should be boring, I think. Nudging me into something this slow and careful and friendly. But I can feel you slowly sanding down edges within me I didn’t know were still jagged and sharp.
You should be boring, I think, but you never are.