Tuesday, February 10th, 2015
Each time I write the date I begin to type January, as if my mind is stuck in a month that eclipsed.
Memories of the summer he and I met, or the months that followed, or the months that followed those months, jaunt in and out carelessly, humming, living a life of their own. They're guileless pests I can't bear to shoo away.
I'm indifferent about most things, maybe everything. If not indifferent, anxious.
He taught me how to get out of bed; he needed me to get out of bed.
I carry, lately, a heaviness on my body, as if a wind's gust huffs onto my shoulders from above even when I'm indoors.
He held me to a standard I didn't believe I could meet, but eventually did.
I worry I've forgotten how to get out of bed without him and I wonder how it is that such a minute action must be learned and relearned, as if it is more difficult than riding a bike. I've stopped cleaning my apartment, which is increasingly strewn with dirty underwear and rancid dishes, none of which I can force myself to wash.
He taught me fundamental things about living, like how to do things I didn't feel like doing.
We were teaching each other how to grow up.
I want so badly to be held, coddled, swaddled, rocked back and forth until the muscles in my body stir and I can climb out of bed on my own. I have to try to remember, though, that in the final months he had lost his patience. I can't blame him for that and much less for any of this. I did this. I did this.
The silhouette of all I feel is this: fear and longing.