Probably Posting, Usually Updates

My Hands, Your Bones

It hurts to touch her. And it doesn't. And you say you're over it but you lose sleep over things that happened months ago, over things that are fine. You make up a game that ensures you only let on a little bit. You cried last night. You feel pathetic. You are pathetic, and no one contests that. But you're also happier.

You're happier because at least you and she are okay again; but what if she knew? What if you told her in no uncertain terms, the dates, the times, the minutes - hours, days spent - thinking about her in abstract concepts? Same smile, same hair. Different hair, Chicago. Tanned skin, soft hands. Summer. You hate summer and you're impartial to Chicago but she loves it but she doesn't love you-

You need to remember that. You need to remember that there were many times that you were able to touch her, and feared it. And here you are. Nothing has changed. You're the same person and you touch her and it hurts and it doesn't. She's not an abstract concept, an idea, she's not whatever your whims make her out to be - and moments you spent wishing for things that would never happen in any universe is beyond counterproductive - it's counter-intuitive. She isn't a concept, she is flesh, and that is why when you touch her it still stings. You wanted to stay longer. You wanted to explore her palms, map out the creases, say they were yours. You can't stay. You aren't a cartographer that has laid claim to the human form. You can't copyright emotion. Maybe it still hurts, maybe you want to stop playing this useless, futile game and tell her exactly how much she hurt to have. She felt like a firecracker, and you had to pinch the fuse in attempt to stop it from destroying you; the damage is momentary, excruciating, imperative.

Did it work? Tell me, are you alright? Did you survive the war?

Even if you did, you're still visiting the battlefield; dead bodies in pictures, texts, warped memories. Shallow graves. You can smell rot, see fingers, poking out of the earth, like they're asking for you to unroot them. Every time you go, all you feel is a pull to be angry again, take steps backwards from acceptance.

Lay the flowers down. Don't touch her.

For Christ's sake, don't fucking touch her.