I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to write about it. I just want to sit here and feel it. Then, I want to look over and see you.
The purity of your silent understanding soothes my invisible wounds. I just want to watch you read. I just want to listen to you talk on the phone while I nap. Do you mind if I lay on your couch and use your voice to ease myself into and out of a few dreams? I just want to take up slightly less psychic and gestural space than is usual for me. I just want to come feel terrible next to you.
I only need a few minutes because things are pretty okay with me for the most part. I know this couple—they’re married now—and one time when the girl felt sad, the boy said, “But you’ve got all your teeth, you lucky girl!” I have all my teeth. I have all my teeth and more.
So right now I just need a few minutes in a room, just a somber interstitial. I’ll sit here and let these feelings move by me like a truck across a freeway overpass. You are kind enough to let my spool unravel, knowing I promise to clean everything up when I’m done. You always know all the right words to say and how to keep them to yourself at a time like this—you are heroically still.
I won’t make this a habit. Everybody on earth has to pull their own weight.
Everyone on earth has to endure their own gravity.
So if I can just come by for a little while—to feel terrible—I would really appreciate it. I don’t like feeling terrible, sometimes it’s just necessary. What I like is knowing that you’ll be there with me. What I like is knowing you’ll say, “Yes,” before I ask.
