God, I love this.
If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you
Little by little
If suddenly you forget me
Do not look for me
For I shall already have forgotten you
If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life
And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots
That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms
And my roots will set off to seek another land”
- Nicole Krauss, The History of Love
- Arthur Conan Doyle
It’s funny. I’m sitting on a bathroom floor in the dark. Heat pumping up through the vent. Drinking from the long neck of a bottle. Malbec swishing through my crooked teeth. I’ve been so frantic and filled with chaos since I met him. It’s been years since…his shoes were untied.
He didn’t love me then, he doesn’t love me now. He left and returned and left again.
It’s coming out of my pores. All of it. I cut our planet from the pillowcase. It rode along in the pocket of junk strapped to my back through remote African villages… at least I can say it’s travelled outside of that room and outside of our heads. I wish we’d been more gentle with each other.
I hear our mistakes like static noise when I close my eyes.