Awry
“I fall in love with you again every day, y’know,” I told you once.
And I meant it. There were new subtleties in your actions that I managed to spot every day, as if I was viewing you through a different lens each day. The way you managed to make me smile with a new type of joke; the sheer depth and immensity of some of your thoughts; the way you brushed perspiration off your brow after sending me home, as if to say ‘well that was hard work, but worth it’; the reins with which you held your temper back and the perseverance that you fully utilised to understand my language. I noticed it all and I fell in love with every new treasure I found. So I told you. I meant it.
You brushed it off nonchalantly, as if my feelings were a joke. I remember the exact words you used to hurt me, albeit completely unknowingly, and it still stings when I recall. You spoke to me in mere words, while I communicated in feelings, actions, connotations (as compared to your denotations), silence, underlying meanings. But it was supposed to be funny, I know, and so I laughed even when I didn’t want to.
That day something in me snapped and I spent the next few months holding the broken shards in me, allowing myself to get cut from within, awaiting the day that I could understand what exactly it was that had been damaged and whether I wanted to piece it back.
I did not.
