I ache for you sometimes.
And sometimes I think that it’s not at all for you. Sometimes I think that the ache in my arms, the physical yearning in the muscles connecting my biceps to my torso, I think that’s for someone else and dear god do I want one day to find them. I want that day to be now. I am morbidly curious to know what it feels like to fall asleep beside someone else.
But sometimes, I think that the ache could be for you. Sometimes, I imagine a world where we got to try again, where you saw confidence in my eyes instead of fear and longing, where we met with our more complete views of the world and talked and dreamed and where I'd spend an entire night with you on the mountain, curled in blankets, hand in hand, whispering the stories I’ve learned, pointing to the stars whose shapes I now know and can describe. I've grown up, you see, and I’m better, and there’s a world to be shared with someone else and sometimes, I think that could be you.
Except that it couldn’t be. You once told me that I had a beautiful soul and at the time, as expected (I would have found my past self lacking in complexity if she had thought anything different), I was more upset that you only saw my soul when there was my entire self here, in front of you, waiting to be noticed in the expected ways. And I think now, you’d still be looking for that soul, and I can’t promise that you’d find it.
I dragged my soul around behind me like Linus’ blanket. It went everywhere with me; it was a comfort, a tool, something to mop up the messes in my way and around me. It was something from home, something treasured and worn, something that new people didn’t really understand, something childish. Eventually, I set it aside and let it gather dust. Souls get worn, you know? They tear and need patches and when you hold them up to the light, they can seem like they’re not worth the effort it would take to fix it. So you live with the hole, you hide the stain, you cram it in the bottom of a drawer you know you never intend to open again. It is a functional life I lead, with no time to sit around stitching an ugly thing back together.
Maybe you wouldn’t see that.
But I do.
The moonlight that shines on me is harsh and brighter than you’d think, blocking out all but the brightest stars and bouncing off too-thick folds of skin that cover and pad tired bones. And I do think I learned many things, like how to sit up straight and smile while your spine curls within you and how to paint away imperfections and what a difference an effort in the morning can make and the exact magnitude of the impact that a pair of heels makes as they dig almost imperceptibly into tiled floors. But tonight, I’d pray for this harsh moonlight to draw up some magic, for my soul to float from its hiding place into the lovely semi-darkness, for moonlight and starlight to twirl together and knit my soul into a seamless whole before my eyes, without me lifting a finger.Then my soul could travel with me again and you’d marvel at the dark shimmer sparkle and we’d spend years filling each other’s imperfections with pools of love.
There are things in the way, though, and I’m much too tired to move them on my own. But for now, it doesn’t really matter. I know there will be someone, somewhere, sometime, It’ll come, it’ll come, it’ll come, it’ll come, it’ll come. And I’ll look back on this night, with the moonlight, without you, watching the clouds run among the stars and smile sadly, momentarily mourning the loss of my independence. Then I’ll roll over and remember it was a trade and not a sacrifice and kiss a cheek well worth kissing. We’ll gleam and shine and twinkle in another night’s life.
I’d like to pretend this is goodbye.
I know it’s not.
But it’s goodnight, at least.
Goodnight.
