It Will Never Be the Same

We ride on a river of misunderstandings. We branch out, diverge and feed into separate oceans. We dissolve and dissipate and dilute. This is the homeopathy of our relationship. It is all quackery and mirrors and desperation.

Why do I chase you? Why do I incubate this darkness?  

I take a book from my shelf. It is called The Eroticism of the Senses. It was written by a woman who spent only a single day each year outside of the box she had placed herself in. Inside this box she birthed a family. Inside this box she travelled oceans. 

Within its small dimensions, she grew old and the lines upon her face and hands were like canyons carved by rivers over the history of the earth.

Outside the world hums. Outside the leaves rustle and the stars burn. Outside the world feels us and braces for the deluge. I breathe as little tornadoes form in the far corners of the room. My mouth fills with your breath, I taste a vision of you. Outside the world is overcome. Outside the night weeps and the stars are released from the sky. 

I look into you. I taste the faint saltiness at the soft curve of your neck. You are luminous and impossibly beautiful. 

The sheets become waves, the waves become oceans.

There is only you. And your skin presses hard against mine. 

Outside the world is quiet. Outside the world is consumed. 

How many times have I woken from this dream? You reassure me, kiss me lovingly on my forehead. You clutch my hand, stroke my hair, tell me everything will be alright. 

I wash my face, wait for the coffee dripping slowly in the pot. I hear you humming softly as you stretch and roll on our freshly mussed bed. You tap on the bathroom door, threaten playfully to burst in, "ready or not" you say, giggling and tapping before falling backwards again onto the bed. I pause and watch my face in the mirror. I already feel the joy retreating against the darkness. I already feel the spaces filling with dread. 

I want you to burst in, I want you to drive it away with your lightness and your joy. Tell me it will be alright, tell me.

I breathe in and a lifetime passes, I breathe out and the stars are born. 

You stretch and roll upon among the rumpled sheets. The clouds curl and grow; churn in the sky above. They mirror your movements, billow with the arching of your back. You breathe in tiny jet streams as storms build on the soft surface of your tongue.

I wait in this little bathroom. I watch the darkness paint the walls. I listen to your laughter and small sounds of pleasure on the other side of the door.  I stand here waiting as the memory of you fades, I stand here waiting as the darkness engulfs me.