Work

01.30.18

A boy sits next to me and we watch TV and sometimes our limbs graze half-accidentally. I feel warm, and I feel okay, and even though I’m trying to take care of myself and to protect all those delicate things, I can’t help but be swept into his orbit. He compels me and draws me near him, and I find myself thinking about him throughout the day, besides my better judgment.

Every night I tell myself I need space, and every morning I wait for him to say hello, and by the time the sun sets, I wonder all over again about the things that might be but aren’t, and the things that could be but won’t. And I always feel stupid for feeling more than I should, but at least I’m aware of the issue. I know of all these games and traps, but the thrill of them consumes me – the sheer possibility of a life made fuller by some mess of a broken boy.

And then I think about a different boy, lost to time but still buried somewhere deep in my flurried heart. There he stands, firmly, somewhere in the storm, and I feel him waiting, even still. Somewhere he is out there, and I wonder if he thinks of me, standing out on his balcony, staring at a beautiful Spanish sunset glowing pink on the horizon. Does he turn his head toward the evening breeze and wonder how I am? Is it weak to say I hope so? Is there any shame in being weak?

I want to be held, and I want to be made beautiful in someone else’s eyes.

But at the same time, I want to not want that.

It seems there’s still more work to be done.