It feels like someone is lying on my chest. He used to do that, but it was warm and comforting and I could run my fingers through his hair. This weight is a rain-soaked coat that refuses to dry, it’s dampness settling into my bones.
I can almost visualize her. She looks like me only her hair is shorter and the the bags under her eyes are more prominent. She sprawls out against my ribcage, somehow both above and below.
I feel her weight on me as I struggle to breathe. Why does one’s emotional state affect the physical body so much? I reflect back to the last time I felt this weight: I didn’t eat for almost three days. My heart hurt then; my heart hurts now.
Vulnerability is a funny thing. I fear it will always be too much for me, to expose my soul to the possibility of rejection and leave myself standing naked before the one whose gentle words and caressing touch I crave more than any other’s. The same one who can inflict the most damage, though I always choose to forget that part.
As each day goes by I feel her slowly lift her fingers and toes from my chest. One of these days it will be a limb, followed by the others, and then the head and neck. I think of the times spent in the bed of his truck, the unwavering wine-drunk kisses. The times I felt supported and wanted, almost loved. Almost.
Finally, after she is content with the time that I have spent carrying her, she’ll sit up. She will disappear until the next time it hurts to breathe and I try to convince myself that my salty tears are good for my skin. I remind myself that I too must sit up.
Muse & Musée 