Falling in love with someone doesn’t mean you know any better how they feel. It only means you know how you feel.
There are nights when the tomatoes growing below my window
freeze to death and no morning is enough to save them.
It takes only the right time of day
the right distance
and an unintended glance to see.
“We squint into our suitcases,
try to remember what we brought with us,
what we’ll bring back,
what we forgot.”
Do you know what she’ll have instead of her father? Your suicide note. Did you think of that when you wrote it, that those words would shadow her whole life?
He never dreamed. But even if he had dreamed, even if dreamlike images arose from the edges of his mind, they would have found nowhere to perch on the slippery slopes of his consciousness, instead quickly sliding off, down into the void.
There was something between me and the world right then. I saw it like a big sheet of glass, too thick to break through. I could make new friends, but they could never know me, not really, because they could never know my sister, the person I loved most in the world. And they could never know what I’d done. I would have to be okay standing on the other side of something too big to break through.
When we did fall into bed together or into each other’s arms, pressing our bodies together skin to skin, it was out of desperation, a longing to somehow rediscover what was familiar and what was good. But what used to feel like a communion only emphasized our grief and eventually we had stopped trying altogether.
His eyes were like your voice—keys to a place in me that could burst open.
He reminds me that the air isn’t just something that’s there. It’s something you breathe in.