I am startled by how quickly we can become strangers. We tether ourselves together, these invisible strings strung from my lungs to yours. Even when apart we are in orbit. There is something in the knowing there is another person out there who thinks on you as the hour passes by. There is something. There was something in all of this.
In my imagination it was raining. But it wasn’t. And years from now I will mostly likely write that it was raining, a blurred windshield. Because as Joan Didion said, that is how it felt to be me. I cried so hard it seemed as if the atmosphere itself must have somehow adopted my sadness. I could feel me heart break along the same seams it which I’d sewn in back together.
I find it kind of scary how two people can be involved in the same moment and it mean so little and so much. I find it scary that we let other people in to the very spaces in which we’d sworn them out of. The cracks along the wall, the plaster not yet dry from last time. The inside of the car was dark and I couldn’t read your face. But your voice was weak and soft and it hurt to hear.
It has really though been raining since that moment. Maybe that’s why in my imagination it was raining then as well. I lie in bed in my attic bedroom for more hours than should be counted and watch the memories roll by in my head like the droplets along the skylights. They come and go. You come and go. I come and go. I read somewhere that when the heartbreaks it never gets put back together the same way. I hope that is true.