Let this go before if hurts too much. If he never cared to fight for it, what is there to hold on to? The string of anxiety, thumping heartbeat too soon, clenched stomach overwhelms your bones. Is love a stabbing throb, a gradual overwhelming doom? Damn me for wanting so much. Damn me for expecting, always, always too much. Want to give too much. Want to take too much. Want to have too much. Wanted this too much. Let gravity take hold. Unravel the folded airplane into its wrinkled indents, crooked edges. The laws of gravity have always been a constant. But questions of the heart are never predictable. You can look for evidence. In the curve of his smile, the length of his gaze, the proximity of his body next to yours. You can look for proof in the beating of your own heart, the anxiety, the thoughts breaking every encounter into shards of glass. You can make hypotheses, try to eliminate the confounding variables. Eliminate the noise. Eliminate everything but this. This, so close yet so far away. So real, yet such a figment of imagination. So full of potential, yet so heart-wrenchingly doomed from the beginning.
Give me the answers to the heart. Dissect it. View it under magnified lenses— piece by piece— molecular biology the shit out of it. And I’ll say some hippie deep crap, meandering my thoughts around some truth I cannot pinpoint. Maybe only then can we let it go, slowly, as it festers like a blister under the sun.
Art of Medicine 