REVERDECER.

“What is this between us?” His throat dries out instantly and he feels like on the verge of collapse, like falling with arms open wide and it’s a horrible, indescribable, gut-wrenching feeling as if someone cuts out his entrails because he knows what this is between them, knows that it’s far too much and not nearly enough but he can’t let the words fall from his lips, can’t accept the circumstances of their situation. So he answers, “It is what it is.” It’s all he needs to say because she hums in agreement, raises her head and kisses his lips.

The problem is that she’s not a fling anymore, not a miscalculation he can scratch off or deal later with. The problem is the thing between them - whatever it may be - is serious now. And he can’t change anything about it.

We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art - we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones.

There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do.

Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here?

I still remember you as a little girl who overwaters plants because she doesn’t know when to stop giving.

You are a woman. Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat. You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies, not excuses.

Forgive yourself for the things that turned you into a ghost. Let me watch you love yourself solid again.

I throw my fears and caution to the wind, the ashes of my old self, reborn in the hope of a new day.

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

Or maybe home is just two arms wrapped around you when you’re at your worst.

You didn’t come into this world. You came out of it, like a wave from the ocean. You are not a stranger here.

I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood.