Bent Words

Bent Words

October 15, 2007

It is not my place.

To tip-toe down the disinfected hallways of your fate, running my fingers along the wall for fear I might stumble over my anxiety, peering in through my imagination and watching you dip in and out of consciousness, unsuccessfully feigning indifference when all I see are more tubes and more machines connected to your body. I shouldnít be there Ė thatís what they say. Hoping so hard, wanting so much, hurting so deeply, cheering still Ė ďItís just that itís not your place any longer.Ē

Thatís what they say. I need to be strong and keep her moving along. Thatís strength, they say Ė never losing your self-control. Youíre not supposed to go back.

Back to the moment when I was resolute in not letting you get to me and that time when I tried to not let myself get to you and then, there you were, surprising me with a kiss on my way out the door. And there we were, tangled and twisted beyond our own abilities.

Just as you said. We never really let go, despite ourselves.

Still, itís not my place.

So I just have to wonder what is.

Written at 11:49 p.m.