I beg your patience. Tell me your story, too.
I want to know if you've ever met this sort of person-- I want to know if this wrenching behind your ribs is at all familiar. People say they feel things with their heart, but I sometimes wonder if that's completely true. The heart, that shape like the wings of a bird on the downbeat; isn't that still too adorned, too removed? Shouldn't there be something before the heart, some eldritch place of origin? The heart has its own intellect, a sort of warped glass-wire logic, and my concerns are too visceral for that. This feeling is marrow and sinew, the yellow oozing of fat under the skin; the clutching behind the heart.
Have you met this sort of person? Like a knife through water, like hail on a fine summer lake. They're not even that important; incidental, they emerge slowly, like some strange pattern in hallway paint. By then, it's too late. You can't unsee them, after all, and that perfect hidden geometry begins to feel like conspiracy. There are no thunderbolts or pheromones, no stars flowers. You know them in passing, and they do not loom large in the fabric of your life. You say 'I like' and behave in the friendly manner, though you never let yourself use the the word 'friend'. You talk, interact, have fun, but all the time something hangs over every exchange, tense and filmy, heavy and insubstantial all at once. You can't even give it the grace of a dance, because it's all about that panicked fluttering, and finding a place to put your feet. No rhythm at all. There are days when it seems like it must just be you, then there are some when you're each so attuned to the other's presence that you know it can't just be you.
But why? You can never say anything. If you toy with the idea at all, it's like an unloaded gun; inert but threatening, and you know you never will.
It's not sexual-- though there is, at times, that arsonist flicker in the cradle of your hips. Maybe you hate this person a little... definitely you hate this person a little... for being so extraordinary and yet so mundane. A kind word feels like it might break you, your dependence smells like bile. Beautiful and meaningless, all some terrible joke.
Do you know someone like this?
It would make me feel better if you do.
I love words, but some times I hate them-- I can't make this feel real, not overly dramatic.