It’s a stretch.
I fucked up again. I can’t keep from backtracking. I don’t know
how to know when it’s best to take a step forward. For that matter,
what even is a step anymore? Confessing a love
that you can hardly believe. Keeping away
to give us both space. And how do I know
if it’s too much, or not enough, and what direction to go?
That’s the trouble with space.
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. True
enough. But what did they ever know
about us? This distance, to my mind, is a trap. It’s you
pushing, then pulling, unsatisfied with both. It’s me
and my lies before this gap grew. I blew through you
like not one single time you called me baby,
like none of your perfect, young, naïve love-making,
ever held any importance to me.
I could go on, for days, for months, more so than I already have,
but how would you take my atonement now?
You’d say, it’s overwhelming, maybe. My triumphant temper
tends to kill progress. But maybe,
just maybe, that’s not my fault. Maybe the head
on my shoulders, the beating in my chest
are meant for something else. Not someone— there’s never
someone else. But maybe I should run. To Spain,
like I’ve always said, or Canada. Quit my life, drown away
in drugs, and forget the always sober sorrow you insist on.
Become a chef. Or a hobo.
Maybe I should write more. And with each word will swell more
of that space
that we have deemed so necessary.
I say fuck this space. Fuck this decaying time. This destruction
is an illusion at best. I have no patience, as you’ve reminded me over and
over again, and I embrace this with audacity now.
It is exactly why I refuse to burn bridges.
I will keeping moving on. I will repair each spot
that is cracked or crumbling or out of use, and I will walk each span with
as many steps as it takes
to find my way back into you.
