Your Unfolding of Me
remembering at 10:38 p.m. on 2003-08-05
When did love become a race to find out who was the worst of the two?
The waitress brushed past us, dropping her notebook into the front of her plain, polyester apron.
"You look good..." He says, slipping the phrase between the broad content, such as video games, books, and whatever else we manage to scrape off the table and into our mouths.
He always remembers to tell me I look good. And he knows it makes me feel better. Better than what, I'm never sure, but I feel lighter...softer, my hair somewhat not as messy. My fingers, somehow not so short. My body somehow, not so imperfect. But above all, I feel.
I inhale it like a cheap high. His never ending amusement with me, balances between a passing addiction, and the strange fact that he once loved me.
(And maybe still does).
I still catch him looking at me...those brown-ish yet indistinctable eyes, soft and attentive, against a harder, presentment of expression. A smirk of thought, and his praise is gone. But it's always there...pulled down into the watery depths of a past, resigned to be just that...a handful of words...a series of gestures, that built our walls between us.
The years have pulled time thin. I had tried so hard to tear him away from me. Out of fear, out of aggravation.
Out of disdain for myself,
Convinced he was going to drown me in the noise of my own confusion and frustration. My enemy, who worshiped everything I had to say. Who milked me for every creative vein...just to say,
'See...I knew you weren't lost.'
The crashing of a glass, dropped into the bus boys bin, makes me raise my head again. I smile, warmly this time. With no resentment. With no release. With no confusion.
"Thank you..." I reply.
Thank you.
never was � never will be
