Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn’t the world, it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don’t know, but it’s painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I’ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.
Then there’s the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It’s not love we don’t wish to fall into, but that fear. This word is not enough but it will have to do.
Let’s just say in some alternate universe, there’s a couple just like us, okay? Only she’s healthy and he’s perfect. And their world is about how much they’re going to spend on vacation or who’s in a bad mood that day, or whether they feel guilty about having a cleaning lady. I don’t want to be those people. I want us. You. This.
