And then I do.
It is such a different feeling as you approach versus when you depart...and in the anxious sick seconds of your arrival I fear the sudden turn, the sudden pivot away and the ghost-like move of you past me.
But sometimes you stay. You remain, for a bit. A tad. You allow me to invade your space, albeit briefly, and you don't caution me, you don't invite any rules. You stay.
And the discussion is light. The topic is trace. It is just a chance to watch your eyes and maybe steal a smile out of you that I can feed long into my mind...a tree being fed into blades to cut deeper and further, to ultimately turn wood into paper...that I can then light into a fire and burn brief the sweet memory of you.
The sight of you from a distance is a slight slice into my spine...immobilizing, unmoving, unabated. You could paralyze from afar, the turn to stone...if only because I would want to watch you as long as I could linger my eyes upon you. Hell, I would watch you take out the trash and determine it to be a Russian ballet.
But there is no choreography to our dance. There is no script, nor rehearsal. There is no music, save the utterances of the hitch in a breathing or a speed to a blood-flow. It is a silent cut...there is no sound to bleeding. It is your walk away that is like the slow pooling of blood from inside of me to the sidewalk...the ebb of me from the flow of you. Staining, falling, spattering...silently as the blade of you gets pulled from the flesh of me.
But that is to over-dramatize...I do not die in your departure, I do not bleed-out when you say goodbye.
Rather, like skin with a dull-blade razor, your cuts are tiny...pinpricks...I do not see them until you have passed over...and only then do the rivulets bloom, like pale dark pinpricks that sting against my skin...the thousands of tiny cuts you cause against the grain of me...there, in the wake of your departure.
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