EmpathySometimes, if I sit perfectly still, I can convince myself I'm floating. I close my eyes and the sounds of the cars rushing by on the viaduct slowly disintegrate into white noise, which helps to further remove me from reality. I am on my own.
I seem to do this more and more lately. I love the feeling of not feeling. Numbness. Brain-melting numbness. It reminds me of the last time I talked to you. I told you that I couldn't be around you, for fear my heart would leech onto you and I'd be plagued with pits of jealousy for your imaginary trysts. I told you that no matter how much of an emotionless bastard I am, I can't not feel for you.
And you said nothing.
So I ripped the band-aid off; no anesthetic needed.
I felt nothing.
And ever since, I find incredible comfort in not feeling a damn thing. I don't let myself get stuck on the bits of you I have in a shoebox at the back of my brain. My thoughts dance around all that reminds me of you so I don't have to remember; so I don't have to feel
I wrote this on a Tuesday.I am distraught, waking to your arms wrapped around my chest with such intention and motivation to cling unwaveringly; you don't even break slumber. If not filtered through glass, I'm sure the sunlight would leave lasting, traceable patterns on our torsos, bending and connecting around the gentle curve we've carved into the bed linens you had shipped from your village.
My left ear feels the beat of your breath, but it's hard to take solace in our closeness. I am viscous, forever filling the shape of he who contains me, though you are not the same shelf upon whom I leaned at last sunrise. And perhaps I'm imposing onto you the ill-formed suppositions I've made of those in my past, those who've lost touch.
Though your touch is far from lost; it comes from behind drapes all around me, straddling my sensibility of how to approach your impending consciousness.
I can't lie; I love the constant embrace. But I haven't known you more than a handful of days, and if my only stipulation