You were the type of person to approach strangers — people of all kinds. You saw their differences and would lean into me, saying “look, darling, look how he holds himself. See how he carries the weight of the world.” And I would sigh, wishing you only to see me, to look at me and see.
You weren’t the sort to shy away from conflict. The real anguishing kind, the type of disagreement that made me ashamed. See, I could be bullied out of my own good opinion, my persuasions were only so profound. But you- a man who broke bones without blinking- to you it was a purpose, a hopeless crusade, to remind the rest of the world that it is not enough.
You were never the one who came home for the holidays. The man, sitting alone at the bus stop, the train station, or the airport- anywhere but home with me- any place that held suspended, hazy and inconsistent. When it rained I’d half whisper to myself, “Hmm, not today, not today, the cold will keep him away.”
You were never superstitious until one day I asked you to be my world, to which you smiled and sadly murmured “darling, I am trying so hard to hold myself together; what makes you think I can save you too?” He was right. So that next morning I packed my bags, lingered shortly at the door, and promised myself that I would never look again to other people for my own salvation.
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