i have a home and it might just be me.
i missed you and maybe i missed you a little too long.
there are lots of ways to contact me… but yea. i’m not going to say anybody has any chance of anything because i don’t know who you are.
talk, i’m all ears.
you know you drop of the face of the earth for a little bit cause you just can’t handle too much and everybody knows you were on the verge of something not good but they mostly disappear and when you’re feeling a little more yourself you wake up and look around and nobody’s about. like i’ve not had a social life in six weeks and there is no one to just kick it with/explore this city with. people ain’t really down ya know? that and i’m sick of being an in betweener that floats around too many different groups but with not a tribe of my own. it gets lonely out in the wilderness and the moon. that’s why it seems my only salvation really is me, myself and my work.
i remember all the springs and summers and winters and sometimes autumns of leaving and being left. i want to say it was always london’s grey sky soaring with the rain, dark and damp and lonely, but sometimes the sun billowed out in a way that didn’t settle well. after some time, when the sting and burn of things began to feel less like failing body parts, it would all feel the same, i would feel the same. it is the third autumn i have been single now and all their names hesitate in the throat, they conjure up distance that is both familiar and reckless.
1. even if you don’t beg, you want to. the whole of your spirit is an urgency calling for the beloved, the night is vast in a terrifying way, the bed is just sinking space, your weight feels like it cannot hold you.
2. shortly after you decide there is nothing to cry about, tears are not your kind of elegance. you grow tough everywhere. when somebody asks about that person that left you tell them it was necessary, it was good, it was the only way/right way. you are not lonely, you convince them and almost convince yourself - you are just alone. and this is welcome because what good is giving unwanted love? where does it go?
3. sometimes, when nobody is looking you cry. you cry unsurmountably in the most inappropriate places: in the threading parlour, the empty corridor of a hospital wing, a hardware store, when a stranger’s skin brushes past you in train stations you have no reason to be in. you touch all the empty bodies you can until you too realise like them you lied.
4. this may happen few and far between, the months have been too busy rebuilding walls instead of your heart. on a daily basis you are mostly numb and it’s the numbness that has you forget all your limbs and memories. every now and again you recall something hazy and heavy: maybe it was the first, last or a time they touched you. may be you will remember how their hands looked, what their voice almost sounded like, how the sun felt on that particular day. nostalgia will be a residue. it will throw you off, it will.
5. you always come back to the place you know best: be better, love better, try better. it will almost think you are home. you will be welcome and grateful. you will say how much you have grown, you will write about it, make a whole life of it. you will do great things, big things. you will unmake yourself in the name of the sky, you will rebuild yourself in praise of the moon, you will call your body almost-home.
6. but you are alone and terribly lonely and it would be good to call it just that without shame.
'We do this because the world we live in is a house on fire and the people we love are burning.' - Sandra Cisneros
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