An Open Letter to my Branch
As of late, you’ve been around more. Ever since I moved out, you’ve been ages away; all the work, new friends, physical distance and lack of communication have made it less noticable. Now that you’re next to me again, I feel emptier than ever.
Before, I’d miss you terribly, but it was bearable. The second you leave me now, I feel like you’ve taken my soul out of my body. All I can feel is the skin that surrounds my being, yet there’s nothing inside. I’m a husk that only feels complete when you’re next to me. You make everything easier. Everyday mishaps, the details that get lost in the tornado of tasks, suddenly disappear. All because you’re there, following me and picking up those pieces.
When I’m too lazy to drive, when I can’t think straight, when the glass overflows just a drop and I want to give up, you’re there. You mop the floor with me, even though I spilled all the milk and all I want to do is cry about it.
All this is to say, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me when you’re not there anymore. I can’t stand the thought of it. In physical therapy, they’ve been trying to teach me how to breathe again. I get tied up in knots and forget to do that. You come back and its like my body feels safe enough to let everything work properly, I have no reason to feel guarded.
That scares me.
I’ve lived my life in a cage I created for myself. You slipped between the bars and make the active choice to stay in here with me. If you leave, you always come back with a gift, something from the outside to remind me things out there aren’t so bad. You remind me that someday, we can go there together and the oxygen will be fresh, the colors will be bright, and you’ll be next to me.
What do I do when you’re not? Who will push the air that’s caught in my throat into my lungs? Who will laugh at the sauce I spilled on my shirt and make sure I realize its not the end of the world? Who will stop my spirals? Who will show me the light?
I think maybe you’ve noticed how weird it all is. You don’t tell me you love me anymore, not unless I say it first. I usually don’t say it anymore, not because I love you any less; but because I love you differently. I like to pretend it’s the same for you, its sobering when I remember her.
I can’t love you, you won’t love me, and I will be content with having you and losing me. Its worth it to be reminded that someone knows me well enough to mop up the milk, laugh at the bad jokes I make and give into my constant, “I love this song,”‘s and “Theres always room for dessert”‘s.
At least you know not to make me feel bad about them.
Strangers Days 