I meant to show you I've been there. I meant to bring you something tasty with not too many calories because I know you can't workout and that bugs you. I meant to give you the good luck you gave me. I meant to come to you and talk, without need or cause or purpose or ambition. I've been there. I will again, while you are there.
Then you won't be there and I will be happy. You will be wherever you want to be, walking and running. I won't be there but I will hopefully also be running by then. I'm running now in fact, in circles mostly - soon you will see that. And that's it really.
You might think I have a purpose, that I somehow am the conductor of this piece filled with quiet, but I too am sitting in front of empty sheep music. If I have a purpose in this silence then what would I hope to achieve? Why, if my hands could heal...
I think about why you paint me as a monster, why you make sure my weekend starts with your disapproval of me. That's all I'm faced with at this point, your disapproval. My presence is intimidating - all of it. So you leave, to delay our misery. I dismay in having less of you each day: Of your words, your photos, your ability to express to me how you feel, your desire to speak deeply. Each day you relinquish one more, and then finally you villainize me for not being there. Presence and absence are both my fault - I don't know how to exist anymore. I am your bane. For not commenting and grabbing hold of the subtle nuances of your affection.
Yes, I know it all! And I know how much you tire of speaking indirectly because I tire of hearing indirectly. And yet, indirect is all I have, all we have. Oh, if you only knew with what ingredients I fill my hours these days, you would not judge my absence. But it doesn't take knowledge to set us free, it takes only belief. If you really read me religiously you should know my silence is not a knife.
Love potions turn to venom without the right preservatives. Soy sauce, as with other indirect methods of salting meats, doesn't keep (and frankly I don't have the taste for asian anyhow). Within days, indirect seasonings wear off and the meat goes bad again. Here we are. If you want love to last it needs salt, real direct salt. I know this, you need not remind me of my shortcomings, I had not forgotten them. But not while the wound is still open. I spare you my affections for the same purpose I always have, right now they would only sting the recipient and bite the applicant. I can only dream of the day when I can pepper you with all that I've meant to say, when I can tell you more of the predictable without you searching for the right response of the day.
It's a bit peculiar, after the landslide came coming we were both left hanging here on this mountain, looking down. We know we both need to get to the top, and yet to our discomfort we're for the first time in a position where holding each other's hands just makes things harder. And yet, you feel I'm closer to the top and wonder why I won't offer you my hand for the moment. You don't realize that you're closer to the top and by the way I'm much heavier than you. You can't carry my grief without falling. I reject your hand for the same reason you offer it - I want us to both make it up there, because up there is the only place where you could face my direction and actually want to be where I am. I never wanted you to fall for me, only to rise for me.
But I've been there. I've been where you are, where you will be when you close your eyes to these words and the night has seen your mind. In a world of inactivity and pain no comfort from afar can make you feel close. These words will feel like daggers when they were meant to be arrows. I only meant to give meaning to a silence that I thought was asked for. If you have an hour tomorrow, I would prefer to give meaning to pamily day.
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