I moved up town you know.
The other day on 74th I thought I glimpsed you from across the street. I was certain it was you and my breath caught in my chest. Then I realized I've been living like this for the last couple years, with my breath caught in my chest that way. That hard tight feeling, not a breath escaping, where nothing is permitted in, or out for that matter.
I remembered again this thing was so much bigger than me. It reminded me of that moment in your dimly lit room, your arms wrapped around my waist. I realized as I stood on the edge of your couch just how much bigger you were than me; and in turn just how big this whole thing had become.
It's moments like these when it's the subtlty that matters.
People live whole lives in the subtlties. It's those types of moments where one says nearly nothing but means almost everything. It's not the words that are said or even the amount of words spoken; it's what lays below the thin veil of words carefully crafted and uttered. Just below the surface a whole world of words and the weight of their meanings live lives all their own.
It was then you told me, my tiny form sluped forward in your arms,  "you taught me to love", and the echo behind the veil of words whispered the subtle addition, "so that I might love another."

Unfinished

First silence.
It grows louder and louder.
Until it becomes almost deafening.
You hold on to the paper in your hand as if it's the only evidence your anchored here.
Your mind jumps to the strangest things at first.
Run.
No.
Stay put.
Wait a minute, just wait a minute.
Then.
What do I do with this?
Put it in the desk drawer, with the rest?
What will I do with all those notices once I sale the desk?
Then it hits. Clearly.
And your legs feel useless beneath you.
You grasp at your middle as if to hold yourself together.
It feels hollow, weak.
Sounds come back.
Their your sounds, only they sound as though they are far off.
Gasping and heaving.
You feel your middle.
Hold tightly to prevent the buckling.
You want to scream, break things, throw something.
But the air has been sucked out of the room.
And if you don't hold tight to your middle you'll certainly come apart.
You think of the last time you saw them.
You think how even now it seems shadowy in your mind.
You think of how their place will be so empty.