I stopped counting the weeks when I ran out of adjectives.
I stopped counting the months when I ran out of verbs.
I stopped counting the years when I ran out of nouns.
I just knew that time was passing and the perfect abstraction of quantification could no longer be quantified. I just knew that passion was passing and the perfect manifestation of mine was across the world — in another world.
I want to reach out to you. I want to bridge this nauseous abyss and define all the terms of endearment I once wrapped around you like braided cords of affection and coy syllables denoting just how au fond I'm fond of you.
Is it easy to ignore someone who you locked fingers, knuckles, nails, palms with? These have always been the most intimate of digits to trade for me. I think you knew that. I think you felt that. Maybe that has something to do with the nature of my art — my deepest fears are held back not by my tongue, but my hand.
I let go of your hand first — that I will admit — but not for want of letting go.
I only let go of your hand for want of quarantining my malaise. And now, on my death-bed, I do not regret saving you from myself — I regret not holding you closer while I still could.
-M
