submitted by upsidebarcodes
*Author’s note. When I wrote this, I spent a few hours crying over my keyboard just to get the words out, letter by letter. And when I edited it, I cried again. It’s perhaps the most personal piece I have ever written, and I’m a bit nervous to be letting it out at all to be honest.
Nonetheless, I hope that you will at least take something from me, be it a pondering or a memory. I put my blood into this one, guys.
Okay. That’s all, then.
It’s just that some days are harder than others; some days are walking through the fire and brimstone of hell, and some days are the fucking level below hell.
At first the problem was memory; I collapsed into bed and smelled you on my comforter (you remember it.) I laid there for a while, closed my eyes; the smell took me back to that too-cold room. I’m laying on the air mattress again. There’s a hole in it, and it deflates while we’re asleep. I’ve got this godawful ache in my hip from lying on the floor, and you’re snoring just a bit.
You start, and then your eyes lazily drag themselves over to mine from beneath your eyelids. A smile dances at the edges of your mouth— it’s hiding in the creases there, threatening to burst out and expose you. Your hand reaches out for me, and fingers trace across my bare shoulder. I snuggle closer, letting my face press hard into your chest. I inhale you as if I could take you into my lungs and never release you. I realize that I’m clutching at your skin. I can’t let go, I can’t. I can feel you leaving me already. We have only a few hours left, and your nails are gently dragging themselves against the expanse of my back. I’m trying to seep into your skin like some parasite, begging you to take me with you on that stupid plane. You continue your scratching and give me the softest shushing.
I’m wearing your Dr. Seuss pajama pants, and when you pull them from my hips it feels like a kiss against my forehead. You bring yourself back to me, laying on top of my body and warming every inch of my skin with the blood pulsing beneath yours. Your hair falls past your ears and tickles my cheeks, and your lips feel so soft and so perfect against mine.
And making love (“because I love you and you love me, and that’s what it is” you said,) is sweet and slow and over altogether too quickly. You shudder on top of me and breathe heavily against my neck, and I’m breathing hard too. You stutter out an “I love you,” and I echo you with everything that I have left in me.
Back to laying still in each other’s arms, grasping onto whatever threads of two weeks remain. I’m crying again and you’re stroking my hair and telling me it’ll be all right, even though I already know it won’t. I blink against your collarbone and realize the skin there is wet.
We clean and pack and suddenly we’re pulling up to the airport and everything in me is screaming (this can’t be happening.) I’m choking on my own bile, it’s rising in my throat like sickening flames from a dragon’s belly. I follow you out of the car and hand you the bag with a maple-leaf flag on it. We stand on the pavement. I’m shuddering and sobbing and the muscles of my heart are beating against themselves painfully. There’s only one way I’m getting out of this, and it’s back in the car, driving away and trying not to remember it happened despite wanting to wallow in the fact that it’s over. Or I can stay here and cling to you and eventually I’ll watch you leave. And the bones of my ribcage will snap when you turn your back to go.
So I whisper that I love you and press my lips to yours as if I could promise you everything in the world with this kiss. I am promising you. I turn and I walk and I open the door and I look back through the mud-streaked window as I drive off.
And you’re standing there on the pavement alone (horribly alone), and you haven’t started crying yet. I want to slam on the brakes and run back to you and keep you from getting on that fucking flight.
But I’m just sitting in my bed, smelling the blanket and knowing that I already lost my chance to do that.