Your eyes were a startling blue on the last morning, brighter than they’d been in the days leading up to it. The sun was so bright through the window that it shone through the thick, white comforter that lay atop our heads. I tried to stop the volcanic eruption inside my chest; molten lava preparing to bubble over from the depths of my lungs and out of my tight throat. We were face-to-face, lying on our sides. You brushed a finger across my cheek, you knew. It was the action that made it bubble over. My eyes turned green from the wetness, like moss.
It’s an odd feeling, this precarious finality. The doubt, the hope, the unpractical desire. All months leading up to this, every excitement shared for all these moments, and they were done, and would they happen again? How could we know? How could we handle it if they did? I felt dumb that you didn’t cry. Though I thought maybe you couldn’t.
It was a situation created out of a wild imagination. Like invisible clay, we molded this bond from nothing. We pretended it was there. We showed it in art museums and the patrons looked on with perplexed eyes. We said “Look, this is art!” and they walked away, shaking their heads. We stood by our creation, saddened. No one got it like we did, and yet here we are at the end of the exhibition and we’re saying maybe they were right. Instead of a genius creation, well, this is just wasted oxygen. It doesn’t exist, and even if it did, it’s futile.
We can’t even wrap our arms around it.