I Don’t Want You To Know Me
I don’t want you to know that I carry the weight of wanting to be something extraordinary, but am too fearful to move forward.
I don’t want you to know that I carry the weight of wanting to be something extraordinary, but am too fearful to move forward.
Wearing your coat, I let my skin feel the weight of your world, layer after layer. I breathe in your familiar smell, a mixture of cigarettes and coffee, and feel the knots inside me loosen.
Love was fading out of our veins and poured onto different paths with different time zones and currencies.
But there is something about the dark spaces in the sky, where the light of the moon doesn’t touch the dark velvet drapes. They draw out the words that harbor under my ribcage.
I need you when Monday rolls around and you put on that suit you hate to a job that no longer fulfills you.
I know how it feels when the weight of darkness crashes down onto your chest in the middle of the night, and how you wish things would stop spinning because the axis seems tilted now. I know, love, I know.
I will keep looking at them while you go through the checklist of things you need to bring. I will note how I am not on it and feel the cracks under my ribs escalate with every beating pulse.
We danced with fire and prayed that the flames wouldn’t burn us alive. But I let your carefree words burn stars into my skin, and I let you feed me plans for a tomorrow that would never find me.
I remember you because I am scared of forgetting. I have already forgotten life before I met you, and I am scared that this will be the same.
This is how I think of space: This space is filled with the memories of you.