I got on here expecting to write a love note to my boyfriend. Silly, I know, but I’m so awful at being expressive that it’s truly necessary.
What’s awful, I feel like, is the familiarity.
I don’t like that’s it’s disrupted thoughts of who I love because of the guilt and despair that I can’t help but feel. My Mema, whose white lily I put lipstick on before sending it down to rest with her for eternity–or, at least, however long it takes for the bugs to eat it–would never have approved of the amount of moping I’ve done lately.
She was a very proactive woman–the sort of woman I feel my boyfriend fell in love with, though maybe not in the way he originally suspected:
He says he fell for my heart… and my ass, though I’m pretty sure he means that one figuratively. I believe him. I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t, and it helps that most of the time I think he’s right. I think, though,
Sometimes I worry. I worry about us both forgetting what’s important to us, about
Love you. That’s it. I don’t think we forget. I think we’re sometimes slow to remember. But it’s there. And I’m not worried.
We put so much faith in our bodies, which is actually kind of funny, because they’re such sorrowfully flimsy things. A bundle of sinews and bones, a fluttering pulse, a damp, rolling eye – we’re really not made of much. We might be built from star-stuff, but we lack the sturdiness of stars, the predictability. It takes a huge gravitational collapse to kill a star; it takes tens of thousands of years for a star to die. But a human body breaks so swiftly and unexpectedly, and there are so many ways for a body to break.
A body can be broken with a spiny virus to small to be seen by the naked eye. A body can be broken by a handful of cells gone rogue, or a heartsick sadness, or a screeching collision between flesh and something hard and intractable, like concrete or metal or time. All bodies break eventually – they shatter…
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