You tell me that I am not sentimental, that I lack an emotional anchor to the past which is why I free form all over the present.
I know you feel that I am distant, disappearing around the corners of relationships, failing to appear when I am most needed…or wanted.
You have also hinted at the possibility of an alternative world within that appeals to me more than this one.
“That is why you write.”
Your words slam against my soul, creating gouges and cracks which only I can feel.
But none of this is true. None of it at all.
But you will never know because you cannot understand.
For my heart is an infinite locket into which I have tucked away every word you’ve ever spoken, every touch you’ve ever given, and every breath we’ve ever shared.
No one knows any of this is hidden away. Only me.
But late at night, when all the universe is asleep in its stillness, I open up this cold unsentimental heart and weep with passion at all there is inside.