Let me tell you a story. Not you, not this story, not that story of a rush in river water, a hurried frenzy to the finish line. Not the story you think I’m telling. But the story you don’t want me to tell. No. This is the story of how I knew you.
It is fiction.
It is bones of a paragraph. It’s a hologram. It’s you, pulling me into the train and the angle of your elbow crooked enough for me to slide in, to lean against. It’s a crumbling foundation. It’s the ticket stubs we found in the street, half-soaked with rain. It is a story about walking past the butcher's window, walking that turned into running that turned into something not quite like fear.
This is the story where I remember the only thing you ever said that sounded sincere. This is not a story about sincerity.
This is a story about an ocean.
We can talk about drowning. We can talk about how your word is unbreakable, something to rely on. We can talk about the promise to save being broken. We can talk about different continents and ribbons. We can talk about lies and liars. We can talk about any number of things: other bodies of water. Your haircuts. Amputation. The four freckles on your neck that form a square.
We can still talk about drowning.
Or we could talk about nothing. This is the best course of action, I think.
You told me once that seeing me again felt like coming home. This is not a story about how you make yourself believe you belong somewhere. This is not a story about how you use bodies until you get scared.
This is a story about me.
This is a story.
Created: Jul 23, 2010Document Media