Losing part of one’s identity and balancing at the very edge of giving in and letting the world jerk you around and pluck out one by one the hopes and turn them into slipping falls. Letting you care and swaying your decisions so that it is no longer clear whether you’re more loyal to your idea of yourself or to who he wants you to be for him, always solely for him. Then letting go of you and leaving you with an easily purchased kindness, sweeping in and out of time and place as if he was never solid, a mere ghost, a cruel possibility.
Listening but only when the sun hasn’t set for too long, speaking when the time is over not when it needs to continue, and while speaking doing just that – forming the words as they come in that moment to save his face, to save his soul. Touching you for your comfort only to spill out tiny beads of anger, not reaching his eyes yet, but slipping out from under the tongue, visible, all too heavy in the calming air of your home. Leaving his hands on your body to extract whatever else is left and twist it, hit you with it, withdraw, and leave.
Looking controlled but only to the point that you understand the coiling primal drives, the fear he wants you to see, the restrains both pathetic and unrelenting. Bruising in all the places he does not care about. Falling into bed, exhausted, driven by lack of sleeps, flashing lights and sounds of the early mornings, then get up, falling again into a routine. Sharing enough to appear genuine, sharing words, sharing memories, never sharing you, the you of this time and this pain. He never asks for that you. You hardly believe it yourself that this is the you that you’ve become again.
Leaning towards yourself, enveloping yourself, being selfish now, leaving, loving from a distance, learning, suspending yourself. Living in a shell.
Music as of late: Massive Attack – Dead Editors