the slow shedding

August 24, 2011

and all of a sudden it hurts to breathe and the shock of it kills my lungs. Panic incipient. not sure why.

i know what brought it on. i’m afraid it goes deeper. i’m afraid of shattering, of the movements of tectonic plates and ice floes slowly drifting apart, ponderous and slow. And the swiftness of human hearts as they extricate themselves from one another. I feel like I’m losing him when there was never anything to lose, and my heart grabs and panics because this way he is slowly withdrawing from my life, little by little. We lose meaning to each other. And one day I will not talk to him at all, nor he to me, and we will not even think to. And the terror of that makes me desperate, anxious, makes me cut my own hands off for fear of clinging, for I will not burden and I will not cling. But my words form points and I move faster, dismiss more, push him lightly away before he leaves of his own volition. It is fear now, paranoia. I am watching us drift. I am predicting it before it comes and we all know how that goes.

This terror is that he is killing the thing that brought us together, made us friends, perhaps more. I am afraid without it, we will no longer be friends, or the more we are trying to peel ourselves away from. That we will no longer have anything to talk about and the silences will grow bigger until they fill the whole space and take up all my mouth until I have no words.

I do not trust this tenuous thing. I have not, for a while. Perhaps that is the problem when you weigh a tightrope down with the terror and baggage of crushes and likings- when you try to take it off, the rope has worn thin. The threads go too. And to trust that is death, again.

I do not trust that it will not fade, that we will not cease. And the terror of that kills me, that he is slowly severing the ropes we tied between ourselves. That is why i am afraid.

perhaps i do not trust friends i can lose not to lose me

perhaps i hear boredom in all the silences that have ever been left

perhaps i simply do not trust because i have seen them go, one by one, into silence.

and the finality of this killing feels like the foreshadowing of us. this is how we die.

perhaps it is a good thing that we die, then, if all we ever had tying us together was a story and too-brief, half-glimpsed stabbings at something more. such a fragile thing to feel things about. such a fragile thing to rest anything on.

I can feel the white birds sitting in my lungs, breathing for me. they’re waiting.

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