Where the Light is

Just keep me where the light is.
– John Mayer, Gravity

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about hearts tonight. The way that we talk about them. Not this organ that pumps iron through our river-branch veins, but this fist-sized symphony of emotions. Of nostalgia so electric that we say things like our hearts thundered, and it was white lightning and fiery epiphanies. That’s not really true though, is it?

 

It’s really our synapses that fire away. Like atom bombs and sawed off shotguns. Yet there is a nuance behind it. Something sexy about the heart. (Blood red and blush of coral and cantaloupe).

 

There is not much I can say at this point. You have made up your mind. And acceptance is much harder to find than I thought. I have muddled up the first four stages of grief. Silk pillowcases of denial, hot coals of anger – so much anger – 4 a.m. prayers to God, and then a four shots of vodka kind of depression. I don’t want to believe it. When the way you held me at night, pressed yourself into my spine, and whispered into the splitting ends of my hair – you knew I was in love with you.

 

Madly, truly. This zest for life. Parisian weddings and candlelit dreams.

 

Science has yet to fully explain love. The heart. The brain. So much unknown. After all, science can only mend the physical. It does not know of wild love. The kind that unravels you. Splits you in half. Like atom bombs and sawed off shotguns. (God, I am barely breathing).

 

I will miss what I thought we had. Lungs that are barely inflating. Someone hand me a helium pump. An artificial valve. I need my veins to breathe. Turquoise streams beneath this flesh of mine. (God, I love the way you spoke to me in French).

 

But it was all pretend.

 

And you are gone.

 

Another ghost that will sleep in the hallway of broken love. I will keep our memories in a mason jar. Far back enough on the shelf so that I am only haunted at night, but close enough so that I can easily shatter it if need be. Because science can’t help me. Neither can God. Or vodka. When all I want is your hands for one more night. Counting my vertebrae; inhaling your scent of twilight cigarettes and coffee, planting dreams of the future in my head. (Let my synapses fire away).

 

Acceptance is so much harder to find than I thought. I am barely breathing. Three counts. Focus. Inflate lungs. Halos of hot air and carbon dioxide. (I learned that in second grade science class). There is not much I can say. You are gone. And I will sit here and write metaphors of the heart, hoping these words will mend me far more than the ones I never heard from you.

Comments

  1. By an accident found your blog, it is amazing! 🙂 Thank you so much for sharing this all..

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