See, nothing about us is gentle.
It’s Monday, and we crash-land into each other’s life that hazardous way teenagers do, full of too much hope and too little taste of the world. You ask me, here in this chemical-and-gunpowder-and-booze shoebox bedroom, if I am terrified of change. I drown my answer in the intoxication of your being.
Tuesday: you drag me by the hand, and we charge into uncharted wasteland, running without looking, running with the grand newness of things. The beast hums while hovering above the Earth, and as I lie awake in its belly matching my breath with your own, I keep thinking about the inevitable stumble and fall.
Wednesday: you fall. Then the world we know falls. Then we realize the futility of our effort in a bout of midweek blues. While we’re crawling out of the rubble, your blood-stained hand latching on to mine, you ask me again if I am terrified of change. I am. Because I fall, too. For you.
Except, nothing about us is gentle.
I do not simply fall for you. I follow you into war. I fight and fumble. I bleed and do it all over again for you. I cut myself raw for you. And here at the bottom of the ocean, I would die for you…
…Thursday: you’re just flesh and a beating heart and bright brown eyes, but when you leave, you split atoms and leave a crater in my chest. Love is destructive, the week is long, and I am tired, so forgive me if I seem spiteful. Forgive me if I don’t understand the ache between your vertebrae. I didn’t know you were trying to shoulder the world. Forgive me forgive me forgive me.
Friday morning and life trudges forward, all the cogs grinding and chains rattling. You wipe the blood off your brows and tell me, “maybe there is.” Maybe there is air in drowning. Maybe there is renewed strength in fractured bones. Maybe there is in me the privilege to one day wake up next to you. I’ll build my dreams on that “maybe.”
But then again, nothing about us is gentle.
Please come back. You can be my Friday night bad decisions and drunken kisses that end in breathless laughter. Saturday I’ll make you burned toast and we’ll dance down the hallway just to make everyone roll their eyes. I know I promised dinner but Sunday we can go to brunch instead. I’ll take you to a museum so you can look at art and I can look at you.
There is a weekend ahead and a whole life waiting, so please come back. I know nothing about us is gentle, but love itself can be.
— an undelivered note from an engineer to a biochemist (vi.)