OCTOBER 17, 2020
I wish all of our moments were this tender. Laying in the dark, both in pain, emotional, excruciating, on his coffee carpeted floor. Probably floating atop tiny shards of glass from the last mirror broken out of anger. Hiccup-like sobs like toddlers in tantrum, in tandem. Soaking up each other’s tears. The tip of his nose wets me when I kiss him. My hairline is moistened, salty. We mutter unintended poetry, like lines from our favorite depressive novels. Barely audible, but we hear loud and clear. We say what each other is thinking. He’s overheating, it makes the warmth warmer. We become closer.
"I’m scared."
"I know.
I’m here."
___
I’ll miss the shape and feel of his lips. The smell of his breath when he’s close to my face. Feeling the hair on his legs as I sweep my hand across the contours of his silhouette. His stubble when we kiss. How soft his hair is. His xiphoid process. His bellybutton. His cupid’s bow. His firm hand around my torso. How soft the tops of his feet are. The goosebumps that arise on his arms when I run my fresh new nails up and down them.
___
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been triggered, packed my things, and left. But this time, I don’t have a home of my own to go to. I pack my things, then pace back and forth, back and forth, breathing heavy, barely able to, just to sit back on the couch. Defeated. I am in a house, but I am homeless. No place and no one feels like home to me right now.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever feel at home again.