Once again, for you

Breathe. Breathe, I say, my palm flat against your chest. This awkward fumbling has left you breathless. I can feel your heart thumping, the muscles expanding and contracting under your skin. It's come over you again, this shaking, shuddering feeling. I think of your lungs: soft, pink, treacherous, and I hate them for the way they fail you.

The other night, I caught sight of the two of us reflected in the window and I thought, yes, this is right. This is what happiness looks like. We were there, perfect, for just a second and then the image changed, dissolved. These days, I see visions in the strangest things, and all of them are of you. You ask me what I'm thinking and the rush of words threatens to suffocate me. I want to say so many things but to you, my silence, is perfect. My inability to speak tells you everything you need to know.

We are always saying goodbye, you and I, on doorsteps, in parking lots, over the distance of the telephone line. The connection crackles, fades; for a second, I think I've lost you but then your voice returns and with it, reassurance. I've been waiting for this moment for so long and now that it's here, I'm afraid. Afraid that you will disappear and there will be no getting you back.

All or nothing, you tell me. There is no in-between with you. This is a kind of comfort I'm unused to. I'm moving into it carefully, cautiously, like stepping into a hot bath. I'm testing the waters, afraid to submerge myself completely. I've tried to warn you, tried to tell you that I'm fucked up, flawed, not what you should want. But you don't see it. You don't see any of it and this amazes me.

We're moving into this blindly. There is so much uncertainty, so much to be afraid of. My first instinct is to turn and run but I can't. I won't. This is a risk I'm willing to take, despite my fear. What comes next is uncertain but for now, know this:

I'm here. I'm ready. Stay close to me.