On The Subject Of You, Innards, & Love Dissolving

things start splitting at the seams and now
the whole thing’s tumbling down
—”No One’s Gonna Love You” by Band Of Horses

 

I dreamed of you last night. You were lying on the floor, and I was sitting on the bed, above your head. We were watching TV, and it was all awfully domestic. I motioned for you to scoot over, and lay down beside you as you turned on your side. Following your movement, I turned to face your back and draped an arm around your waist. My eyes stretched wide when I felt your hand entwining your fingers and mine. I kissed the middle of your back, shirt and heat against my lips. I feel you sigh. In that dream, I found, my life was complete.

But I woke up, and I felt empty. Nothing remained of the feelings I had in my dream. And I knew why, but I could not accept it.

Before I went to bed last night, I had stood by my window, listening to Band Of Horses. It was probably the combination of the emotional (in the indie-rock sort of way) music and the drama of my position that I began weeping for God Knows What Reason. Later on, I realized what the reason was. And my suspicion that the music triggered this cathartic show was confirmed.

It’s been a while since I last got to talk to you at length. Hell, it’s been 2 months since we last got to talk in person, remember? It was the day I confessed what you apparently (and so callously) didn’t know, or maybe pretended not to. You were so beautiful; I couldn’t sleep without thinking of your hair or your eyes that day. But all that’s gone, along with some other things.

You didn’t make anything clear, or at least not to me. Maybe it’s my fault for wanting iron-cast certainty when you were incapable to give it, maybe it’s your fault for not saying what you should have and letting me on. I nearly yelled at you that day, because I thought you weren’t listening to what I had to say. I may never know, though. And that’s the worst part of this whole mess.

I waited. 2 months may not be a lot of time, but it sure as hell feels like it when you’re waiting on someone to simply say “what do you want me to say?”. You wouldn’t even give me that. You wouldn’t give me anything. You condensed about a hundred rejections and acts of emotional toying in a period of 2 months. And it drove me insane.. At least until a few days ago.

A few days ago, I realized that I was getting tired of everything you were pulling out of your pocket and shoving back in just as I began to see it. It was a slow realization, but it scared me just the same. It built up slow and settled deep in my heart, like dirt in water, like coagulated blood in a sink. It scared me a lot, and I didn’t want it. Not one bit of it. Because I wanted to hold on. Because I can’t live with not knowing what you had to say, or what we could have been, or if we would become anything. I can’t live with the fact that I knew there was something, but I couldn’t see it.

But even as I protested, I felt it slip away. It felt like my innards were being slowly pulled out of me in a span of a few days. It was torture. I knew, however, that it had to happen. I am still under the impression that this is just a watering-down of my feelings for you–just enough to be able to deal with this with a clear mind–but if I find out otherwise, I won’t really know what else to do but sit back and let it fade away. It still makes me sad, and I have not stopped crying since last night. It feels like somebody close to me is dying.. In a sense, that’s probably what’s really happening.

I can’t articulate myself anymore. Sorry I can’t write any better; my brain is currently soup. I’m sorry. I love you, but if you don’t want me to, I’ll stop. I’ll hold on for a bit more, though. Sorry for being a bother.

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