#7 | touch
the first thing I loved about you was the way you make tea. you always gently looped the string around the handle of your cup. I started doing it too.
there are a lot of things about myself that I don't like: I stay up too late, I'm asymmetrical, I hold my heart out for everything and everything hurts. I thought you liked these things about me. you used to say all you wanted was to be my parasite, to relinquish your earthly body and watch the world through my vacant, naive eyes. you nudged parts of me and watched me grow; my closet and bookshelf are both bursting with all the things you gave me, so much so that I can't stand to be around it now. but you - what did you need from me?
I was trying for so long to figure it out. your heart is always beating but never given. anyone who reaches for it can only catch a glimpse, and anyone who hurts it is completely boxed out. but over time, the more parts I saw, I was starting to stitch it together. what I didn't realize is that you don't even know your own heart, because you've never completely shown it to anyone. you would bristle, though, when I asked for more information. after all, what's wrong with what works, when you've gotten through life so far in one piece?
looking back now, should I have been less afraid? should I have simply reached with my bare hands and desperately held you close? all this time, maybe I was the only one of us who could see the way you needed to be loved, and I should have told you what I discovered. but I could never put it all together in time.
you used to think everything I said was so remarkable. I think you still do.