I don’t know what it was, but there was something different in you. A crazy energy, like the air around you was electricity. From the first moment you saw me and grabbed me like I was a lover returning from the sea, I felt you like wine in my bloodstream. You took my breath away. I knew you.
I had never felt like that before. It was all-consuming; a need to move so close that we’d melt together into one ghost of muscle and flexible bone. As if my skin belonged to your skin, every accidental touch sat right. There were maps on your body where my fingertips fit. A sense of urgency, like never before, made home in me. The weight on my chest pulled me down, down, and I went with it, with my sanity and comfort, I went with it.
But it was more than skin missing skin.
I wanted to bare myself to you, show every strip of raw flesh and the soft fabric of my dreams underneath. I knew my sadness would never scare you.
I felt like I had consumed you with my mind and that a part of me would now irrevocably be lodged into you, and a part of you in me, too. As I try to make sense of it all, the only thing that comes to mind is: in the creation of the universe, your atoms were part of the same split star than mine.
It is as if our souls overlap.
But we are just buying time, wondering if we will do permanent damage to each other; whether having loved someone makes up for the pain of losing them.
As I’m starting to unravel the reasons you left, that one comes up a lot. There was never hope for us. It seems like such a waste that two people who are so much the same should not be made for each other. We were not made for the city, either; we couldn’t replace romance with red wine and high hopes. The city that had never been a home to me outright repelled you. That night we climbed up to the castle to see the city laying at our feet, I felt like I was protecting you from something lurking between the lights. Some places are just hostile towards certain visitors, and I sensed that mine didn’t like you much.
So I asked you to come away with me. A new strange city, a new strange you and me. In descending darkness, I knew you wanted to say yes. I was scared you would. In this unstable state of interlinked stardust a touch could push you over. Or maybe you didn’t need my help to make friends with the ledge: you started a sentence, stammered, quieted. Words hung in the air but as soon as you would breathe them out, they would change everything.
It would have never delayed the inevitable, though. That’s why you did not come when I asked. That’s why I didn’t stay when you asked me to.
I am not sure I believe in being born again, but something about you makes me think I have already met you somewhere. The imagined visions of you in my mind proved to be accurate when I met you. As if they weren’t merely speculations but echoes of old memories.
And that makes our separation easier: knowing that either our time had been or it was yet to come. That in one part of the universe a corner exists where we move together eternally. That once, somewhere, you belong to me and me to you, and if this was not that time, it is irrelevant.
Thursday morning, weary-eyed from lack of sleep and barefaced without my make-up, you walked me out to the street and let go of my hand for the last time. Before I turned the corner, I turned to look; you were looking back, too. And I never told you this, not when I was trying to convince you to come with me, not when I asked you not to leave town before I returned, but I knew you would leave. I imagined what it would be like to come back to you, and all I saw was nothing. Maybe that’s why I turned to look for the last time.
You called me tonight just to hear my voice, and it repeats the same thing again and again: I don’t know what it was, but it was something.