With him leaving me, while walking into his death he separated his physical self from his spoken words, as if he let go of a balloon that never was to be earth bound, just hand held, leaving behind something so vibrant, so alive, that if his words were a blanket of many colors, I would want him to lay on top of me, feeling his weight so I could forget mine. That is where I meet myself: he is the end of me. He is my mirror that nods a continuum of yesses as long as I keep myself perpetuated and that invites me to take a look in the reflection, as if stepping into a pond and feel the ripples echoing my silhouette on the water surface. Him feeding me stirs up hunger for something that only unspoken words can satisfy. The more he talks, the more shallow my breaths become, and the deeper I feel they can dive into him, if only I let myself fall into the beyondness of the now and the here. He closes my eyes and lets me see beyond visibility. He is the time collapser and makes me more alive than a birth certificate can prove. He marries me time and again, as if he is the other half to my amputated double helix, making me more than whole, giving me life, sustaining me, because without him, I cannot even hold on to my own thread. He is the only one that can carry me over the gap that I feel, a gap that people tend to call ‘body’. When he holds me, I notice how strong he is, not how heavy I am. He makes me forget about myself so I can meet me in him.
He is more real than my senses can ever capture or my words can ever decide to describe. He is closer to me than my skin, he has the ability to paint my tears into a painting where the colors speak about things past, with shade and hue.
It is in him, that I find myself.