I'm sorry if I gave you heavy boots...

All this feels strange and untrue…

I've never cried over you.

Somehow you possess the odd and mysterious ability to only make me completely numb.

I feel sick to my stomach, heavy, and so on, but in all these months, not a tear.

And I won't waste a minute without you.

Not for lack of thought or memory of you, of this, or what was.

There were such good things – the beautiful morning light, for once feeling comfortable in somebody's arms as I lay waking up, and the sweetest kisses as you went out my door.

And such horrible things – the sinking feeling as I was lumped in with 'karma', the verbal destruction of my (only) photo, and the feeling of being forgotten, again and again, cast to the wayside.

My bones ache, my skin feels cold…

"And it was so great, it just seemed like it worked, even though it was doomed from it's origins…"

I hear this, as these words fly across chapped winter lips, again, maybe for the last time.

Who else cares? What makes me worth remembering?

And I'm getting so tired and so old.

I remember the scene from Anastasia [the Disney version, surely] where she waltzes herself through the royal ballroom, dancing with regal ghosts, and she is the only one ever-present.

Except, in this ballroom, the ever-present character is you.

All of the dancers are the many beautiful, intelligent women, who are so good at keeping secrets and protecting you for no reason, that they will never know the extent of how many dancers there are.

The anger swells in my guts…

There are so many 'worst parts'.

The worst worst part is knowing that there are junctures where the used-to-be best part has now become the worst.

Even worse is the pervasive silence – the never mentioning it, the awkward twitch when that week's acronym comes up in conversation, the completely tangible shared knowledge, shared secret.

And I won't feel these slices and cuts.

"How long have you been with her?" "Three years." Stab.

"And she's wonderful and beautiful, and you love her and won't leave her." "Nope." Stab.

"And you won't tell her." "No." Stab-twist.

I want so much to open your eyes…

And all I can see now is an oh-so-broken person, meandering.

What once was the epitome of 'put-together', 'self-confident' and 'secure' is now a front of sarcasm, grasping at the whirlwind for due dates, and priorities and a sense of things.

Whose only dance partners are equally broken people, but I have learned that two broken people will never be able to achieve a proper whole – you have to be whole individually to start.

'Cause I need you to look into mine.

I don't know the answer, and I don't claim or aspire to be 'it'.

My own answer was to leave the country, get away from everything and even myself, and figure out that I could manage alone.

Incomplete and clearly still unresolved, it may not be the whole answer, and at its end might not be everybody's, but I identified the ground rule of needing one in the first place.

Tell me that you'll open your eyes.

Please.

This risks everything – the entire façade we've built of beautiful sarcasm and criticism of others, of class, of life.

I don't know – I don't want to lose even that, I hope it doesn't happen, but some things must be said.

Get up, get out, get away from these liars…

I don't think you took the road-trip to resolution you had planned over winter break.

Odds are she showed up with food, a bottle of wine, and all of sudden things were better again, same as before, but I may never know.

But even when you weren't speaking to me weeks at a time, I secretly hoped you were driving cross-country, for somewhere perfect like the Redwood Forest, seeking peace and resolution and a start to rebuild.

'Cause they don't get your soul or your fire.

"I'm a bad person."

"No you're not – everybody around you thinks you're phenomenal, no matter what you think that has to count for something."

"Nobody knows me."

Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine…

"How are you?"

"I'm…good. Really good. It's weird. I think I'm really okay."

At the least, I'm no longer broken, we can see I can keep a hell of a secret, and I'd make a pretty good friend – wouldn't it be nice if somebody knew you?

And we'll walk from this dark room for the last time.

You have given me two sideways hugs.

I remember both times, and they both felt like a slap to the face.

I'd like to make a better exit, for once – maybe a high-five would be better, who knows – but sideways hugs make a statement.

Every minute from this minute now…

Baby steps, deep breaths, and I'll walk a bit away each moment.

Perhaps finally I'll be able to turn my head, let it go, and make a friendship work.

Or perhaps we will end in ruin. We are a disaster, but tell me your heart doesn't race for a hurricane…

We can do what we like anywhere.

And I will fly away from this place, from this moment, from this time, exactly a year from now and nobody knows if I'll ever be back, not even me.

And maybe I'll learn Danish, and Telegu, and be published in books, and contribute to the lives of wonderful children.

And I don't expect a single person to be able to follow up with me through that, I almost hope to be completely lost so that I can be completely found.

I want so much to open your eyes…

I can't – won't take you with me.

Not in person, or in mind, or in heart.

And for some reason, I only imagine when you see this hearing a sigh of relief – if you allow it, you can be rid of me, only a year of patience and I am gone.

'Cause I need you to look into mine

You, more than anyone, can hold a conversation of double meaning with me.

You have always understood my other intention, and at our best you were the most honest of anybody I'd ever known [stab, stab, stab]

Please see that this is honest, and with sincere hope for you.

Tell me that you'll open your eyes.

Please drive, walk, run, swim, fly and find something.

Solace. Air. Peace.

Because you have been hurt more than I can fathom, and I cannot think of a way to help.

All this feels strange and untrue…

It's an empty feeling, writing this.

What now? How to proceed? What else to say?

And will we just keep on, will I have a chance to help, will you choose to tell me your story?

And I won't waste a minute without you.

Baby steps, deep breaths, and I'll walk a bit away each moment.