Always, it was my heart.
I’m not a romantic, but if a robot can love, I did. It’s rare to find a woman who listened the way she did – the endless regressions and asides that we launched into were digested, comprehended, and expounded upon. It was a wholl(more)y new experience, and one I wasn’t prepared for. My scientist’s brain was struck by the clarity of her counterpoints, and the similarity with how we fashioned thoughts.
Mostly it was her mind.
I have a confession – I cannot perceive beauty. Friends told me she was beautiful, radiant, an exquisite creature. But I was transfixed by the depth of her passion for truth, for her exploration of foreign philosophies, for her attention to detail, and her love of playing with numbers, language, and symbolic logics. Her uncanny ability to tie tangential information into cohesive theory was stunning. Her attention to my writing was flattering, and she often laid bare the warts, even on the first pass when her comprehension of the topic of interest was nascent.
But there was a point where the conversation stopped being so intense, where less gripping topics were explored. I was deathly afraid that my companion, this woman unlike all other people I had ever met, would transform into a lesser being, obsessed with discussing the minutiae of grocery shopping or of purchasing shoes. The mere thought of her being imperfect struck me with the greatest sense of loss and I withdrew.
I touched her once, by accident – a small brush of my hand on her thigh as I retrieved a text. Her eyes brightened and glowed so immensely that I knew I had to go. It was unfair for both of us to be in the presence of such obvious future disappointments.
Seven months of phone conversations and message exchanges equaled what seemed like seven years of correspondence before the day we actually met face-to-face. Seven weeks of wining, dining, dancing, and deepening our bond through physical touch; long, lingering kisses, and watching the sun rise (and set) wrapped (more)in each others arms when we finally found ourselves in the same hemisphere. He must have told me seven thousand times that I was too good to be true. I guess I was. Seven hours ago, I woke up to an empty bed and no trace of evidence that he was ever here... or that he ever existed.
Seven days later, I received his cowardly email inundated with classic, yet overused break-up cliches beginning with "it's not you, it's me," and ending with "the last thing I ever wanted to do was break your heart." But it was his heart he was really protecting from harm... though I hadn't given any indication that it was anything less than safe in my care. So, he decided to shatter mine into seven million pieces... you know... just in case.
Seven minutes after reading his message and mopping up seven hundred tears with seven tissues, I decided to respond. I wrote seven letters...
take to me as the sea
for i am the formless, the shapeless
from which you will eternally wander.
lost and not found
(more) fury and no sound
I can feel it now distant memory
is it the sound of your
heart beat? lovers still yet
to meet? begging please after
I am the sun;
which warms you
You are the moon;
reflecting only my afflictions.
I have met every day with luster unrivaled
and yet the day will come when i too will fade
you too will fade
His left hand was clutching around for something. Someone in the bed but there was no one. Hadn't been for a very long time, he remembered. Half asleep. He couldn't be truly asleep anymore. Always aware and watching behind the eyelids.
(more) This is a strange life, he thought to himself, All rehearsal and no performance.
He was given over, or more precisely, had given himself up to his inner voices. They called the shots now. They were in charge. There was no longer hope of living in the world of the living. This was his surrender.
He thought he remembered the first time he had sex. It was actually very sweet. He was in love with her and her with him. She was a little older and it wasn't her first time so maybe not quite so awkward as it could have been. The early summer sun was streaming thru the bedroom windows at her parents house.
When they were done, he was surprised that the come came back out of her and she laughed.
She said, Now you have my heart and I have yours.
He remembered it all like a story he had read or maybe a scene from a John Hughes movie. They were characters in a movie projected onto the back of his eyelids.